


McEthan - Destroying Gangland

by AceDhampir



Category: CMSB
Genre: Alternate Universe, Other, Roleplay, Serial Killer Mick, this was early so Mick's a bit off
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceDhampir/pseuds/AceDhampir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second thread of our McEthan threads: when a former friend of Ethan's is killed, he enlists Mick's help in pitting a gang against itself, with the help of a special friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ethan lets out a quiet huff of air before he finally admits what's on his mind. "I got a message from somebody I haven't heard from in a while. The Feds raided this warehouse, a guy got shot. Bled out in the ambulance. Friend of mine. And now they want me to get revenge on the cartel that hired him in the first place, as twisted as that is. Like they're the problem. But...that's the thing. Isn't it both sides? The damn drugs, the damn cops...shit, bro, I..." He pauses, voice cracking. It's stress, exhaustion, and confusion as to what side to take. It's a lot to pile on one man, and from how Mick met him to the restaurant to this it's clear he plays a major role in many facets of the community.

Mick listens, dragging from his cigarette and letting Ethan get his story out. Mighty stressed about it, he is, and that makes him pay a little more attention.

"I'm sorry," he says it genuinely, knowing full well how shitty it felt to get caught in two different sides. Choices, he hated choices.. But when two different sides were pulling at you from all different ends...Well what the fuck were you supposed to do?

Mick didn't have any answers. The last time he had been caught in a choice like that...it didn't exactly end well for the sniper.

"That's a lot to deal with for one person, mate," he said, slightly hinting that if Ethan needed his help, he'd do what he could. But the choice of what to do was Ethan's alone. But at least the man had the Welshman's support.

"I...don't even know where to start, bro. I guess I need to check in with his wife. At least, he was married when I knew him on a day to day basis. They could have split. You know how things are, especially around here. But then I've gotta think about where we should take this. I don't want to start a war with the cops. I like my freedom. And there are a lot of corrupt pieces of shit on the force, but they aren't all. So...I need time to think, I guess. We aren't going to act on it tonight, anyway." He gives the faintest of smiles before he pockets his phone and stands there, looking rather deflated and lonely for a brief moment before he bows his head faintly and slips out the balcony door, where he swings up onto the railing, twists, and...climbs out of sight like there's no tomorrow.

He doesn't like stairs and he needs to think.

He can't help but smirk at the sight of Ethan scrambling outside but if he needed time, well, that meant Mick could catch up on sleep. His nerves were happily calmed by the sweet nicotine and he figured it best to let Ethan do his thing. Still, weirdo needed to learn that stairs were an option. There was no way Mick could get up there himself anyway.

Poor fuckin' sod.

Putting out his last cigarette in the sink, he shot one last look to the balcony to see if Ethan was coming down yet. When he saw nothing, he just sighed and made his way to the bedroom, hoping to high heaven that the bloke who owned the flat hadn't died in the bed. Least the comforter looked nice.

If Ethan needed him for anything he was sure the man would just wake him when the time came. if not, he was gonna sleep. The thought of another possible job, what Ethan's brought up, he did say we, so he figured he was in on this.

Honestly, he didn't mind one bit. 

When Mick wakes up (whenever that may be) Ethan eventually ended up passing out sprawled across the foot of the bed like some folded up blanket. He's rather comfortable that way, sprawled flat on his back like a dead man. It's the only way that takes the strain off of him due to the weight of his cybernetics. He ditched his shirt and shoes, and his prone position reveals the heavy inkwork he bears in a way it hasn't been seen before. While eclectic and seeming to be without pattern, there's an undeniable beauty to it all. It suits him well.

He wakes when Mick moves, a foot tapping into him or at least blankets moving. With a quiet grumble he shifts and sits up with some effort, revealing at last the long and thin scars down both arms and across his shoulders. Those are definitely surgical.  
"Morning."

He dreamt about Prophet again. That was the usual now. Dreaming about what he couldn't have. Mick wasn't prone to nightmares, it was just...sad. Made him ache in a way he hadn't felt in almost two years now. God, still not over it. He might never be.

He didn't remember falling asleep but the second he foot tapped something that felt solid he jumped, waking in an almost instant from the shock and looking down to see Ethan just sprawled there. If his body wasn't still asleep, he'd laugh.

"You okay mate?" he asked, not even noticing that he'd come in. He didn't really care either, not when he blindly slammed a hand on the nightstand to grab his pack and lighter for a morning smoke. He never had the chance to ask if Ethan had grabbed any coffee...

"Slept like a rock." Ethan gets up and looks for his shirt, apparently not having luck. He can't even remember how he fell asleep where he did. All in all, Mick's lucky he didn't wake up with Ethan basically spooning him with a leg over his own like some kind of cartoonish fanfiction scenario. At least it didn't come down to that, right? "I got coffee for you. You look like the type." He's not, though. Clean living, save for chocolate. Hey, he's allowed to have one weakness. If you give him the good stuff he'll do just about anything within reason for you. Many have found this out, and they've definitely used it to their advantage.

"I figured out what we need to do...if you're game for a job, that is. You're gonna have to step into my world, though, and you might not like that given where you've come from." He's given fair warning, respecting Mick's past and the fact he might still know some of the very people they could run into.

That would be awkward.

"Coooffeeee," he mutters, rubbing at his face and scratching the growing scruff he'd neglected to shave just do to overall laziness. Plus he looked good with he, he thought. Might do a beard thing. He's Welsh, he can get away with it.

"I'm game for anythin'" he yawned. "Once I get coffee and finish my smoke." 

Simple terms.

Though Mick can't help but be a little hung on the last bit. There was a reason he had a bitterness towards his former faction. Mostly, over the fact that his team has handled very poorly at it's end. And Prophet. There was that little bother. He'd made sure his employers had kept him far from that side of the past. But honestly, that rage just fueled him.

"Lemme get coffee, then we take, yeah?" he said as he already shuffled out the bedroom door. A little bit of banging around he managed to finally locate where Ethan had stashed the supplies and groaned as he attempted to figure out the coffee machine. Digital things with the little cups, it made no sense. but after finally fumbling with it and getting at least half a solo cup filled, before almost limping back to the doorway of the bedroom, just leaning against the frame.

"Right then. S'what's the plan?"

Ethan can't find a damn shirt. He's frustrated and he makes it clear. The man who lived here was a lot smaller than him, so that won't work. He gives up and just deals with it. There are worse fates. He'll pick something up as they go. For now, he settles on a hoodie that was already a bit too big for the man and stretches out the sleeves before sliding it on and zipping it partway up. That will do for now. He wanders out and leaves Mick to guess where he procured that from.

That's...a little bit disturbing. Oh, well. It isn't like he stripped a corpse or anything. Not literally, anyway.

"This gang- I know them pretty well. I just don't know who they're at war with right now. So I figure I'll show up on their turf, knock things up a bit, demand an audience with their leader like a dipshit. They know me, they know my name. They'll be scared as fuck if I show some muscle and force my way in. I offer my services and they'll accept. Everybody around here wants me on their leash. And then? From inside, I figure out what the fuck is going on. The question is...do you really want to follow me into this?"

We murdered a celebrity and have come this far," he smirked, savoring the taste of his coffee, as terrible as it was, it was still good enough to wake him up. "Don't see why I'd back out now."

Plus he liked a little adventure. Made him excited. Tingly, even. 

"Whatever you're planning, I've got fire power but I doubt that'll keep me from getting killed right off the bat. You'll probably 'ave to convince 'em to let me work it. I doubt they'd be openly accepting of the Welshman with a coffee addiction and funny accent on my appearance alone."

True, he didn't exactly have the words "accept me now im totally gang material" tattooed on his forehead. 

He finished the rest of his coffee and just dropped the cup on the floor, not even caring at the moment. "Right. Well, I'm game when you are."

"Hey, bro, look at me. I can get what I want. I tell 'em you're some specialist and I won't work without you? You're in. Trust me on that. Just...act along. Improvise. You can do that, right?" He seems to trust Mick enough to be able to think on his feet. It isn't like he's throwing the sniper into the lion's den alone. He'll be there, too, and he's positive he can get them out alive. If he weren't, he'd never have suggested this in the first place.

"We figure out what their beef is from the inside and that's when I get to work to shape the conflict and push it where it needs to go. And once I've done that and started infighting, I slip up some info to the 'feds. They come knocking and everyone turns on each other. We slip out and let it begin, hands clean and money in pocket. Thoughts, concerns, additions? Let me tell you, the thing that always works with people like this and like me is curiosity. It won't fail now, either."

"I've been undercover before, E. It's nothin' new for me."

Plus he'd worked in undercover situations before and knew his way of passing himself off as something he wasn't. He just hoped Ethan was as scary and authoritative to these people as he let on to be. Because if not well, he'd be one dead Brit. 

"Seems good enough for me. I can 'elp you with the fed thing. I've still got a few contacts we can hit up. Ones I wouldn't mind seeing thrown in the fire if y'know what I mean."

Good plan, good execution. Nice follow through. Plus Mick gets to shoot stuff. That's always an exciting bonus.

"Understood, and I'm throwing a few specific guys into the pit myself. Consider it a deal. I don't know the payload but I'll split it even with you. That sound fair?" Ethan has his own reasons for wanting whatever cash they can get, after all, whatever they may be. He studies Mick's expression to check if there's anything the sniper doesn't agree with before he finally nods once all is set.

"Figure we could get started today, if you're up for it. But, first? We should probably check on the situation with what happened last night. See if payment's coming, check the news for any of it and make sure we didn't fuck ourselves over. We could go to some coffee shop where the TV would be on, or an internet cafe or something." Ethan runs a hand through his rumpled hair, spiking it back to where it was before.

Mick nods before smacking his sides, trying to feel for his phone. If anything, his contact should have called him, either with praise or heated anger at the supposed fuck up. Still was weird,the entire hit was supposed to go without a hitch. He just hoped there was no evidence to point to either of them for the murder. Then again, he was a professional.

When he finally was able to pry his phone out of his jeans he frowned, nothing but a text from his sister and another job opportunity. He should probably call her at some point. But nothing from his fast contact. Maybe the news hadn't spread yet. He did just take off when they realized their mistake.

"We should also think about transportation, in case we run into trouble we can't get out of on foot, yeah? Rental place around 'ere, maybe? Or I could ah, steal one. Last choice is faster and 'onestly, easier," He was completely game for what Ethan proposed. And he couldn't help but wonder how many times Ethan had been in a similar situation as this. "An' I could go for some breakfast."

Clapping his hands together and moving away from the doorway to gather up his gear, the Welshman cracked his neck and stretched. "I'm ready to leave when you are, mate."

"Didn't you...come in a car?" Ethan offers it with a faint frown as he attempts to remember it. "Well...I didn't see it, but I assumed. We can definitely go pick it up." If it's still there overnight. Welcome to Detroit, right? "There's definitely no rental car places anywhere near here. If we leave the 'hood and head towards the airport, though, on the other side of the city, there will be more. But I'd need to change clothes. I'd draw too much attention and nobody would rent me one, 'cause they think I'd be using it for a crime. Well, they ain't wrong." He huffs in laughter at the thought. "But you look pretty Kosher. I'll take you where you need to go and leave you to it. Deal? I know a good cafe with internet close by that doesn't monitor usage and where there are three at the back no camera watches. And yes, that's on purpose. So what do you say- down for some coffee?" He won't be drinking any, but he'll fuel other's addictions shamelessly.

Their trip downtown isn't too long, thanks to Ethan calling in a favor and getting a ride from a friend. The Pontiac is questionable and smells of something more than cigarette smoke and it's likely wise to not take a blacklight to the area inside. The engine has character and there are several odd little squeaks, but despite a bit of off-color driving they make it in-tact and safe.

"I left my car outside of the city, came in on transit the rest of the way. Didn't wanna risk vandalism or whatever else, y'know? Plus I still 'ave equipment in there i didn't need to bring." Good point. Last time he left his car out in the open, ended up with two broken windows and a pack of cigs stolen. Good news was they didn't notice his rifle case. But he didn't want to lose what other equipment he had. Honestly, all he had was that car.

"Always down for coffee. Almost offended you even 'ad to ask."

The smoke smell of the car, now, Mick didn't mind. Both the other smell, oh yeah. He didn't like dead bodies. Didn't like the smell either. Funny, a man who killed people and generally had to deal with death and decayed bodies, it still made him squeamish. 

But the arrival at the coffee shop was a relief. Armed with both his phone and laptop from his shoulder bag, he scoured the internet for anything related to their kill from the night before. It was still early, too, and because of the area he doubted major news networks would be all over it until his name was released. Which wasn't exactly a bad thing, but out of fear of killing the  wrong target he hadn't made contact with his client either. 

Sloppy. Bloody sloppy.

Least he had coffee. 

"Still think we're clear for now, mate. Maybe for another day 'er two. Enough time to do your little plan? I doubt I'm gettin' paid for this," shame, really. It was such a beautiful shot. "Whatever. I'll live."

Wow, that was a little apathetic. Maybe because the idea of this job Ethan's brought down seems to be a lot more interesting than murdering Danny Devito.

Ethan is situated at a computer in the back corner, at the odd angle it isn't being recorded just like he said it wouldn't. Smart man, knowing things like that. But would Mick have ever thought otherwise? Likely not. After all, how could he have made it this far if he wasn't? He's a top-notch traceur and a careful and old hand at his career, trained in a family legacy but not in the fashion one would expect from movies. His father encouraged him to find his own path, and so he did. Parkour has been that outlet for him, and it has propelled him to new heights for the modern world and an urban setting. Times have changed, and so the hitman has changed with them.

"Hopefully you do. If not? Whatever. This will get it good, promise." He's checking his email and doing so quickly, deleting a lot before he even reads them. He's a popular guy, from the looks of it. It's a shame none of that seems to translate to friends in real life, though, that he can reach out to. They're just contacts and nothing more. He gets work and he moves on, never putting down roots. Mick would understand just how tiring that can get.

Eventually, he's sent out about four or five before he loads a public records database and pops up the info on several gangsters in different tabs. Time to do a mini briefing. Even this business requires it, sometimes. He doesn't have a file, after all, to go on.

"Alright. This is Rodrigo Torres. Big hot shot, thinks he's hot shit. Really just some low-level drug pusher, but I digress. He's who I'm going to directly. This guy here is his lieutenant, and this is the other guy you'll see a lot. These three men are dangerous. Everyone else is expendable, but these three? They aren't going down easily. And if you ever find yourself alone with them, you'd better be fucking sure you can maintain cover."

"Right," he says it like Ethan's showing him decorative plates on E-Bay instead of dangerous gang-lords. "So these wankers are priority number one, eh?"

Simple enough, really. "Doubt they'll be that big of a deal, mate. I've dealt with a lot worse."

Still, he made a note to memorize their names and faces. If the time came, he'd be able to kill at least one in a scuffle and probably snipe the rest given the chance, limiting anyone else from being harmed. It was always important to have a face to the man you were going to kill. 

"Right, yeah, so what next? Stroll in, demand our places, start an inner war?"

This whole gang thing was so new to Mick. It would be exciting, if there was a chance of him being found out and blood dead. But Ethan had promised safety with him, and he hasn't lied to Mick yet.

"That's the thing about gangland, bro. It ain't easy. They fight dirty, and they fight so hard you won't believe it. You won't find anybody quite like me, but you're going to find people extremely talented in their own ways. Rodrigo here's got a bit of a "The Most Dangerous Game" complex going on. I'm assuming you've read that short story." And if Mick hasn't? Well, he can just look it up, now can't he? They ARE at an internet cafe, after all. Ethan doesn't wait for questions, either.

"But, yeah. We're going to stroll in and I'm not taking shit. That's the first thing I'm making clear. I'm offering my services because it benefits me, and they'll understand it immediately. They know my connection with the dead guy, so I'll make it clear I want revenge. Not on them, of course, but they'll suspect it. So I build from there."

Alright, good plan, good plan. Mick can't see any holes in it.

He expected Ethan to be good at improv. Mick could probably get away with staying quiet and just blending in. Let him do the talking and let Mick use his tall frame and big gun to intimidate anyone who questioned why they were there. Plus Mick's always wanted to play the silent type. Good.

"Now that that's all on the table," the Welshman starts, downing the rest of his coffee and rolling his shoulders back in a stretch. "When do we begin, General? 'Cause 'onestly I'm itchin' to get this started."

"Simple. We get a ride straight to their turf and we make some noise. Finish that coffee and let's go." Ethan stands and logs out, clearing the browser's history. He pats Mick on the shoulder and drops the napkin he had from the muffin he ate in the trash before heading for the door. It opens with a faint jingle as the chime goes off, and it will repeat when Mick follows. It's time to get rolling.

It isn't far from Ethan's place, actually, and chances are they can hole up in the Night Market for anonymity and safety and then head back to Ethan's for a more open place of residence should they need to let themselves be seen and found. The dead man's apartment is something of a secret base, some kind of batcave, or a secret club. At least, that's how Ethan will spin it. Safehouse would be the proper word, but he isn't the most formal of men.

The neighborhood they approach is a heavy mix of ethnicities, and one thing is strikingly clear almost immediately- Mick doesn't belong. At all. Ethan, however, has the ink and the bearing, and initial questioning glances are written off. If he's good enough for Ethan then he must have something going for him, right?

Ethan leads the way to a building with a parking lot with grass growing between the cracks of the cement and broken curb stoppers at the fronts of the spaces, lights that flicker on dimly if at all at nigh to illuminate it from city power. The building is faded and so is the bright sign that reads BINGO! to explain what the space once was. It's a safe bet no old ladies come here on Friday nights anymore, though.

Last chance to back out.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Well shit, it wasn't his fault he was pasty and Welsh. You can't exactly blame him for that.

But still, despite his outward appearance of a malnourished Brit, Mick had other ways of protecting himself. And he had Ethan, which made it all a bit easier. Still didn't stop him from being nervous.

Without even thinking he dug out his carton from his pockets and slipped out a cigarette, not bothering to light it but keeping it between his lips for comfort. He had his gun in it's holster and his rifle at his back, but damn it if either of those brought him comfort.

But he's come too far.

"After you," he offers, glad that he's not the one leading the operation here. If he was, well, he'd freaked out a lot while ago.

Ethan sets off towards the door without hesitation, and they're quickly approached by gun toting gangsters at their finest, the horrible turn of the weapon down pat and everything. Krieg doesn't raise his hands and doesn't back down, instead speaking firmly and with sure power. He knows this game, and he won't be made to back down to anyone in it.

"Bro. Seriously. Bro. Calm the fuck down." Ethan points to both at once, using the index finger of both hands to do so. "I'm here to see your boss."  
"He's not here right now." One snaps back, weapon turning upright and head rearing back as a flash of a lovely grill shows.

"Bullshit. I can smell his black tar heroin and his callgirls from here. Now let me the fuck in before I shove your heads so far up your ass you can tell your small intestines I said hello." Ethan strides forward and simply grabs the wrists of both men, twisting them down with his painful strength. He doesn't let go until the guns drop, and it's then he walks between them and past like nothing happened.

"'At's right, up your ass," Mick attempted, almost instantly regretting it just because of how dumb he sounded. But then again, he doubted these men could so anything to him when Ethan nearly broke their wrists. Bonus points for creativity on Ethan's part. And for such a short man he did seem to have some kind of strength. Baffled Mick, really.

Having to scoot between them as the wailed out in pain, he kept himself close as he could behind Ethan as if to protect himself. Ethan made a better fighter, and Mick could protect himself better when he only had one side to worry about.

The sight of others smoking inside the building gave him the courage to finally light up, letting go of anxiety the instant he was able to smoke. It had better last, too, he was running out and didn't bring any additional packs.

"Fuckin' ridiculous in 'ere," he whispers, bending low enough to keep it just to Ethan's ear. "Bleeding 'ell."

He was scared, honestly. Anyone new in this situation would be. But the nicotine made him able to hide it. At least, feel like he was hiding it. He just hoped it would be good enough

Ethan keeps his cool and doesn't reply, just huffing in amusement as he powers forward. He isn't afraid, and he'll prove it. This is his turf, this is his game, and he won't be knocked out this easily. He came here of his own accord and he'll leave the same way. For now, though, he's got to keep his focus in place and prepare for what's coming. He's got more than just his own life on his hands at this point.

They're flanked instantly by angry thugs, but Ethan pushes straight through to the office he knows the boss is going to be in. He pushes the door open and enters with a loud tone of voice and a shit-eating grin. That's Krieg for you.  
"BRO! Long time no fucking see! Heard you lost some men the other day. Pity your operation's down a few pairs of hands, isn't it?"

"What the fuck do you want, Krieg? You're not fucking welcome here no more. You know that." Torres snaps right back, pointing angrily with the pen that was in his hand. "You've got balls, showing your face again."  
"Don't I know it."  
"Who's the pale guy?" He glances at Mick and scoffs in laughter. "Your part-time fuck or something? Come ON, Krieg, take out the trash!"  
Mick's got one chance to stand up for himself. This would be it.

"Excuse me?"

Oh, there it was. The instant Torres insults him the anxiety and fear drains away. Instead, his brown eyes lock on the other man's and he uses his height to give him a ground. You could bruise a sniper a lot of ways, simply just teasing him sometimes pissed him off if it wasn't from certain people. But direct insults? From this asshole? Hell no.

There were a few times Mick could recall where he just about shot off a suspect's head back in the day. Mostly because they were disgusting assholes, and he had no time for assholes. But he had his boss there to help him keep his cool back then. Now? He just had Ethan in his way.

Neatly pushing past Ethan, he all but grabbed the little shit and all but yanked his 45. from it's holster to rest against the shorter man's temples.

"There's a diff' between me and trash. Trash don't 'old a gun and know which area of the fuckin' cortex to shoot when needin' to put a man down."

He doesn't even bother to remember where he is or who all is around him. He's just anger. Maybe it's more from acting his part. Or maybe he's got a couple unresolved issues that have just exploded into an episode. Either way, he's peacocking, and about five seconds away from probably doing something incredibly stupid.

There's a moment of silence as Torres stares down Mick and the 45 once the sniper has spoken, but it breaks when he abruptly grins and laughs. Tension in the room falls instantly, and even Ethan is borderline to it himself. The man claps a few times before nodding and pointing at Mick.  
"You've got spirit. Fine. You're both in. Cut's the usual, Krieg. But the instant you cross me-"  
"We're out. But I won't stay long enough to do that. Consider it a favor to get revenge on the motherfuckers who killed a friend of mine."  
"Personal reasons are horrible reasons in this business."

"No worse than trusting your latest prostitute to not bite your dick off or give you an STD." Krieg's little smirk makes it clear he knows how to handle this man verbally. The two banter like old friends, but that doesn't quite seem like the right word for them.

"No shit? You always think good about this shit, Ethan. But I KNOW what you do. Got a name, gringo?" Torres looks to Mick now, eyeing him carefully. "You some kind of hopped-up ex army guy?"

He snorts, surprised it worked.

"Rawson," he doesn't trust this man with his first name, nor really his last, but at least Rawson sounded slightly hardcore. Or at least, Mick tended to think so. Still, he keeps his eyes pinned on Torres, backing off and sliding his gun back into his holster at his hip. "Could say that."

Elaboration of "hopped-up" would probably be post-special forces and American FBI PTSD suffering Welshman with anxiety and slight depression. So yeah. A little hopped up.

But instead of going into that, he kept quiet. He didn't know these men, and besides asserting he isn't to be fucked with he really doesn't know what he should say to these people. But he's established something with himself. He steps back, giving the floor to Ethan, and takes a smoke to keep himself steady.

If any of them did do anything, he'd be quick to show them just how big his rifle actually was.

"Ex military types are good. Stick around and you'll advance fast, gringo." Great. Looks like names don't mean much until the use of them is earned. Ethan knows the signs and takes the queue to leave, patting Mick on the shoulder and stepping back. Time to get situated neatly now that nobody will show up to slit their throats at night. They can't talk too heavily about the plan here, after all.

"OH- Rodrigo, got a job for us? He works with me, he proves himself faster, right?"  
"Got that shit right. Sure, you want to shake up a dealer who owes me a cut? Be my guest. You remember the Admiral?"  
"Crazy fucker with the navy officer's cap?"  
"That's the one. He owes me 5k. Get it and you're solid."  
"Thanks, bro." Ethan grins and nods before heading to the door. Mick can follow or stay in the lion's den.

Well that went well. Anytime Mick didn't die, he was pretty sure it went fabulous.

Barely realizing his cigarette was nothing but a wasted stub by the time Mick made it out the front door, he just let it drop from his mouth before dragging his shoe over it.

He knew something smelt nasty in there. The fresh air was a relief.

"Just a thought, E. How many little errands we gonna 'ave ta run for Torres before we actually work out your plan?" he got getting themselves solidly inside. And hell, he could go for a little harassment. But long term? That was a whole other thing.

"Two, three? Four? Who the fuck knows. Patience, Herr Garnele." Good think Mick doesn't know German...right? Ethan's demeanor is reassuring enough, cocky in its understanding of his surroundings. He's unafraid to face what's before them. After all, this is a game that he plays quite frequently. He's good at it, too. He gives a flippant little wave to the guards out front before finally talking more freely to Mick once they're out of earshot. He knows neither was bugged and as always he's watching for tails and shadows that indicate they aren't being left in trust and trust alone. When your life is easily forfeit in this profession, you develop the habit.

"This guy. The Admiral. Real nutcase. Got out of the navy a while ago, been pushing heroin and crack on the streets. Laced some of it with some shit one time, killed a few people. The police couldn't tie it back, but we knew."

"A nice bloke, I'm sure," Mick mutters, trying to recall what little German he knew to figure out what the fuck Ethan just called him. Ah, well, didn't matter. Not when he had the idea of a shakedown.

"How you wanna work it? Get 'em alone, rough 'em up? Or ah, lemme kill 'em?" He hoped for the former. Maybe because he was itching for it. Murder was like a drug, do it enough times and you start to enjoy it. Especially when it was putting down a scumbag. He didn't like killing civilians, whole former law enforcement thing. But guys like the Admiral? Well, totally different story.

"This guy? Nah. We don't kill. But we ruin him, and we push him to the point he might just end up accidentally killing himself. Nobody would suspect a thing. He's just a dealer with a criminal record and a no-good tendency to take lives for the fun of it. Not quite a serial killer, but a complete psycho. I'm not saying we can't wound him grievously, though. I mean...actually? You know what? We torture him, get the money. Or I can torture, you can kill at the end. Give me a good reason to take his life and it's a deal." Ethan glances to Mick, expression open and words honest. He's all ears.

He can work on the fly, that's for sure.

Bummer.

He snorted. He didn't have a good reason other than "Cause i jus' wanna kill the man, mate", so he just sighs. "Al'ight, fine. We don't kill 'em. Woundin' 'em though seems good enough."

It's a small, sad sacrifice but at least they'll get paid for it. and Mick's dealt with bigger psychos that what this guy sounded like. If anything, he'd probably let Ethan rough him up and stand there to be sure he didn't run ad that they got what they needed from him. Simple. Plus, there was still his little murder from the night before. Adding this one would just increase polikce activity, and he didn't have a need for that.

"Let's get out man's quid, hmm?"

"You can let out that anger some other way later." Whatever he has in mind by that is anyone's guess. Chances are, though, it will do the trick. This is Ethan Krieg we're talking about, after all. He doesn't do bland and normal. "Let's work on this. It could be tough to find him, but he knows my face. I can go in and blend in perfectly. You? You're going to have to either scout it out from some little perch or play the dumb tourist. I'll leave it up to you. I know my plan of action, but how comfortable are you going in blind and deaf to harm's way? You can carry some small weapon, but not much, if you choose to play the idiot."

Planning is a strong suit for Krieg, and that much is likely becoming clear. He's an old hand at this business in and among this type of people. As he talks, he's walking and leading the way without blatantly doing so towards a seedy bar and the last known location (to him, anyway) of the man they're seeking.

"I'll find some spot and attempt to blend in. I can scope the area and keep tabs on who goes where, yadda yadda," it was where he was best anyway. "If push comes to shove I'll do better there than I would on the floor. Too risky for me to just stroll in. If anyone gets curious about me I'll do the tourist thing. Try out my Cockney, maybe."

"Whatever you do, you call the shots," it wasn't that Mick was afraid to take a leadership role, he was a soldier, he liked to have direction and instruction and it made sense that he'd step down when Ethan clearly had a good set up as he did. Plus, he was dying for a little alcohol. And maybe, he just wanted to see this man in action more. Made him curious, Mick had been around the supernatural enough to know that Ethan wasn't part of that world. But...something was weird about him. Perfect opportunity to observe.

Ethan in action is quite a sight to behold, and nobody could blame Mick for wanting to watch it, as voyeuristic as that sounds. If Mick is ever bold enough, stupid enough, or brave enough to try and get out and up to where Ethan seems to disappear in the mornings, he'd get one hell of a show. Krieg trains, but he has to do it in places and at times where people won't find him, bother him, or record video footage. He doesn't mind the interest of kids, but there are limits to his patience. He can be pushed past the breaking point remarkably fast, and that whip-like temper has earned him several scars on his lifetime, chiefly the two small ones decorating his face.

"Right. Set up, stay busy, and I'm going in. I have a feeling you'll figure out how to get my attention if you need to. I know I can find you, sticking out like a sore thumb." Half joking, his little grin makes it clear the statement isn't an insult at all. Ethan likes different, and he's been growing bored of his surroundings. A little change isn't a bad thing.

Krieg leaves Mick truly alone this time, heading towards the bar's entrance and slipping outside. His form can be seen through the murky glass, but it's clear he isn't planning on staying long. The man he sits down beside to greet with a fist bump and a hug doesn't match the description of the Admiral. He's fishing for information. Whatever he's saying, though, is completely out of Mick's ability to hear. Maybe one day they'll work out a mic system, or bugs. Until then, though, they're improvising.

\--

"Ever since the ODs, that crazy fucker ain't selling 'round here no more. People even thought he might be dead."  
"Until he borrowed Torres' money."

"Yeah. But isn't it possible someone else picked up the mantle? People don't know what the fuck he looks like. Just that stupid-ass hat of his." That gives Ethan room to pause and think. His friend has a point. A gentle frown crosses his lips before he hesitantly nods.

"You have a point. I'll keep that in mind. But who the fuck would want to use the identity of someone that's so hated?"  
"Your guess is as good as mine. People might want his blood, but nobody's going to fuck with a nutcase like they do guys like us, Ethan. But...hey...Krieg. Stay safe." The warning gets an odd little huff from Ethan, who nods and slips away.

He has nothing to do but wait outside, he'd already found tow buildings he could take if Ethan brought the fight outside before Mick moved in. He had his rifle to his back in case any of that did come into play, cleverly hidden in cardboard inside of a nylon case, parts strapped down with wire and packing material. He wasn't short on improvisation for his weapon but damn if he was just gonna throw it around.

He gives Ethan a cigarette before he decides to go in or not. Best to let the time spread between E's entrance and his. The sweet taste of nicotine builds up his confidence, even though he's still being stared at by almost every person in the vicinity. When a man stops to stare at him hard, Mick cleared his throat and in his best attempt of an American accent he mutters "They don't let you do it inside anymore, huh? Fucking ridiculous." He sounded like a damn Southerner. Still, helped with the tourist bit.

Seemed to be enough, the guy left him alone and he let out a sigh. It was these times he wished he and Ethan had worked out some kind of messaging system. Texting, even, but he didn't know Ethan's number.

He let the time pass as he finished off his cigarette, moving in in case their man showed up and Krieg would need back up. And to order himself a beer before flipping the collar of his jacket and trying his best to look like a lost tourist too tired to ask for directions for the night all while hunching himself over and keeping his head low at a back table. Seemed good enough, for now. Now he just had to wait. If the Admiral showed, He'd probably either slip out and head for the roof or wait and see if Ethan would somehow signal him. But for now, it was the Welshman's call.

Ethan questions one more person, his conversation brief and also quiet. The language is questionable, but if Mick has a good ear he might pick up an unholy combination of English and Spanish. Ethan doesn't know much, so he has to just deal with it and improvise. There are worse fates in this world. When he's got what he needs, he's got his phone out and he's dialing. He stands and moves towards the door, brushing past Mick as if he were no more than a stranger. He speaks a few words that would likely catch the sniper's attention, but more than that the gum wrapper with an address written on it that is slipped into the man's hand would.

"Hey, man! My name's Mitch. Yeah, buddy of mine recommended you. I need a fix, and you're the man that's got it cheapest, right? Fuck yes. Where can I meet you? Got it. Be there soon." He's out the door while speaking almost as if he never meant to enter at all. He's got a location.

And now? Mick gets his wish. Ethan breaks into a jog before he leaps neatly, bounding across the two lane road in two long strides, curb to middle to curb. That simply shouldn't be possible.

Bingo.

He memorizes the address before crunching the wrapper and sliding it into his pocket. Ethan would get there long before he did anyway, he's seen how fast he moves. The distance will allow Mick to travel without having to constantly distance himself from Ethan, keeping suspicion off him and the other assassin. He counts to thirty before slamming cash on the table and sliding out, making his way to the address that he'd just tapped into his GPS on his phone, headphones jacked in to keep the audio just to himself.

His instinct is to the roof, but again, he's not here to kill the man. Maybe play the part of tourist junkie? Maybe give another roll of that good all ol' terrible American. He watches, seeing what Ethan's wanting to do when he'd finally caught up. Defiantly getting radio next time. This silent routine isn't gonna work out long.

Ethan...er...MITCH, at the moment, is talking with several homeless men and laughing with them like he belongs. They probably don't know him personally, so he pulls it off well enough. He jokes and teases, taking on a faint accent and dropping his slang. He sounds like he belongs here, now. None of the standard American voice remains, which probably leaves Mick to wonder what he really sounds like when he's not watching himself. Can the sniper ever get Ethan to be that vulnerable to him? It would be hard, just about as much so as getting his story. Ethan's aware Mick has a past, too, but he doesn't ask for fear of having to return the favor when questioned about his own. This is rather obvious and surely has been picked up on. He doesn't hide the fact he's nervous about things like this.

Shortly after Mick's arrival, though, a lean and gaunt figure dressed in an oversized coat approaches Ethan, the cap described resting jauntily on his head at a rather off-kilter angle. Ethan greets him, and discussion goes smoothly. There's a brief exchange before Ethan reaches for his wallet. Mick's got a chance- will he make a move and cause a distraction or let Ethan handle it?

Hell he could interfere, but then again, he was itching to see how Ethan handled himself. So he kept his distance, wandered around, and offered some of the homeless men around him cigarettes in exchange for conversation, practicing his American and keeping a close on on Ethan in case he needed him.

With the way Ethan had handled the guards earlier, he doubted he would even be needed. He wanted to see fully what this man was capable of.

"Wait. Wait, let's take this inside, ok? I don't want to actually collect it out here." Ethan snaps the words with sudden paranoid violence, like someone who can't let others know he uses.

"Fine by me, kiddo. Let's go over here, then, off where the prying eyes won't see a thing." He sounds something like...[Mr. Tim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h0pC8-R33zk)n, quite honestly. It's almost disturbing, and frankly the image won't get out of Ethan's head now. The Admiral leads the way into the alley from whence he came, and Ethan follows like the naive fool he's playing to be. He's got the man out of sight. Now's a perfect time to take him down.

He keeps bloody moving.

Still, the Admiral looked like an absolute tosser, like the kind of guy you'd want to beat up just because he looks ridiculous. Especially that hat. What.

Thanking the men around him by giving out the rest of the cigarettes from the Night Market he had on him, he decided he'd been hanging around too long and decided finally on what to do. Wasn't exactly much he could do, really. Not when Ethan had the man on his own. So he kept his distance, debating still on if he'd follow or watch from afar.

If he walked in, the Admiral could get spooked, and, as Ethan and several other folks had pointed out, Mick stuck out like a sore thumb. He couldn't exactly hear what Ethan was saying from where he stood, and he made a mental note to invest in a mic. Wouldn't be a terrible purchase, no?

It was too risky for him to move in. Didn't mean he couldn't sneak up when Ethan distracted him, no?

"For this price, are you positive it's pure? I don't want to die shooting up and have everything I've built go down the drain." Ethan sounds sincerely worried and talks like a complete douchebag. He's pulling this off a little bit too well for anybody's comfort.

"It's as pure as you're gonna find anywhere. Trust me on this. I know my shit." The self-righteous bastard points two thumbs towards his chest and grins like he's doing Ethan a favor selling him a product that could easily kill him regardless of what is being promised here. After all, it's the same fate that befell the other guys.

"Man, what's your supplier? Where do you get this stuff? I don't want to get involved in any gang wars. I hear Torres and his men are chomping at the bit. Something about being cheated out of money." Ethan's words are concerned and somewhat flightly, but they get the desired flinch out of the Admiral. Bingo.

"No gang wars with my product. Pure, grade A shit, man. Nothing that will get you killed for buying it, either."  
"Plenty that will get you killed for selling it, though, motherfucker." The punch comes so fast that there isn't really time to react. The nose breaks and crunches inward, and the facial bone itself also takes a solid hit. The man goes down hard, unconscious.

The murmuring noises had faded into nothing and his curiosity got the better of him. Peering around the outer alley wall, frowning when he saw Ethan standing over the Admiral's unconscious body, looking at the two of them in a state of oblivious confusion.

It took him a few moments before he walked up on them, gesturing at the unconscious form a few times, making some strange, sharp sounds before finally finding words.

"Okay, I 'ave a few questions, actually. Ones I would actually adore answers to," he cleared his throat. "One, 'ow'd you do that? With the face? An' two, how the fuck are we supposed to shake out the bloody money from a man who's nose you just shoved into 'is skull, eh?"

He's seen people get punched. Hell, he's gotten a few fists in his face a few times. But never had he seen damage like that. He couldn't even look at it, and imagining the sound makes him cringe.

"Unless you're thinkin' torture once 'e wakes up."

Ethan listens, testy and somewhat annoyed evem though he has no right to be and this is all his fault. Go figure. He glances at the man before he looks at the state of his own hand. While his gaze is on his knuckles, he speaks to five the answers requested.  
"One, I punched him. Hard. Two, we wake him up. We can probably do it with his own product...if if doesn't kill him, that is. Help me get him inside?" He points to the back entrance to a worn building bearing a sign for a Boys and Girls Club. It looks abandoned, or at least inactive for the moment.  
Ethan drags the Admiral with no real care for his head or neck. Talk about brutality.

"Remind me to never make you mad, then."

That did raise more questions than he wanted, but the job was a bit more important than Mick pestering the other assassin for more information. Grabbing the unconscious body's legs, he helped Ethan carry the damned heavy body. Ethan didn't seem to have a problem with the weight, made Mick a little jealous. Eyes sharp as an eagle's, arms weak as sticks held together with peanut butter.

Still, he managed, getting the man through the door though maneuvering and almost just shoving him in. "I've got some twisty ties from when I 'ad to work my gear we could use to tie 'em up if we need. As for the drugs that's your call. Far as I can tell you missed the pressure point but the man's gonna already be in a world of pain, which 'ill either 'elp or hinder us. Either way, that was a damn 'eavy blow."

"Smart man." Ethan replies to the dark little joke with the words and the briefest of grins before the two make their way inside. He does what he can, and it's quite a lot. He's strong as hell, and there's no way around that fact. Mick will only come to learn that further. In truth, they'll work together well. Ethan isn't dumb- anything but. However, he's brash and tends to rush into things before he plans them out very well. Mick can right that and stop him from acting so impulsively, and maybe check him more on other problems. However, calling him a mindless thug or something else meaning the same is the fastest way to get him hurt and to make him hate someone. His pride is easily wounded, and he knows he's simply not like that. Nobody else has the right to say so, either, in his eyes.

"You tie him up. I'll deal with the drugs. Deal? Deal." Without waiting for confirmation, Ethan is off to scout for them.

"Right," shrugging off his disguised rilfle case and setting it to the side, he dug around in his coat pockets to produce a few zip ties he

It was good Ethan had brawn, that could balance out the fact that Mick was as dangerous as a puppy with nothing in his hands. As for a street thug, he just saw him as someone with a lot of shit going on that wasn't a lick of Mick's business. Hell, he respected Ethan, any man who could do what he did so quickly to another as he did the Admiral, well, that had to demand some respect from others, right?

Making sure the ties were tight, Mick stood up and stretched, glad they were back to being stationary for a little while. Gave him some time to just rest for a second.

You'd think so, but Ethan more often than not finds himself as the joke of the crowd like he had accomplished nothing at all. Now, how is that fair again? Life doesn't like to take it easy on someone like him. But he's gathered his ashes and he's added to them, and what he's burned to rise will fuel him for a long time to come as he continues to stoke the fire to a dangerous degree.

His search finds exactly what he figured. The moving boxes are dingy and old, stacked about three high, but some stacks are missing a member or two. One's tape has been cut open neatly with a knife or a key. He pops it open and glances inside to find exactly what he figured he would.

"Heroin. Definitely not pure shit. Some idiot buys this, they're probably fucked. Best part is, some idiot already bought some. There's a ton missing here. I want to know if this fucker is poisoning it to hand out or not. More than that, I want to know WHY his entire face has changed." The joke is clear. This isn't the Admiral, even though he claims to be.

"You sayin' 'e's an imposer then?" Great. Fantastic. More running around. Now he really wished he had his car. "Wait, I thought no one's seen this guy's face? So 'ow you know this isn't our man?"

Good question. Then again, Mick isn't from here and still doesn't know who Ethan's dealt with in the past. And well, all he had on intel on this man was hearsay, defiantly not enough for a profile and without any visuals he couldn't be faulted for assuming this was their guy.

"Right, okay, so we could follow the trail back, track down the drugs, track down our man. Or manage to find out why this nice gentleman is co-opting our sub's style, yeah? Depending on if he ah, wakes up before the day's over," he added casually, turning away to light up a cigarette while they waited. "How you gonna test the drugs?"

"I ain't seen his face but I know his reputation. And that he's supposed to have different colored eyes in addition to a nice scar beneath that part of his voice I basically destroyed. Not that you can tell that now, mind you." Ethan sniffs with disdain and picks up a package of heroin, all wrapped neatly and taped shut. He hefts it up and down, tosses it from hand to hand, and then steps over, tucking it under his arm.

"Guy's a fake. So the real one's probably decomposing somewhere. Maybe in this God-awful drug supply, wherever it is. But why would anybody want to steal the identity of someone the entire hood wants dead?"

"Fifteen seconds of fame, most likely. Like the kids who make fake celebrity blogs. Take the identity of a man who's well known, either loved or hated, especially if 'e makes money and prance around in a costume until some plonker punches off your nose. You've also got your ah, you copycats, generally younger men but this guy seems a bit older. They see somethin' they like, usually a killer and take over when the original is either dead or arrested. Or 'e was 'ired to do so, trap someone, maybe, fool some of the local gangs into believein' the man was alive to lull them into an ambush."

He's mostly coming up with these suggestions on experience. Honestly, if the real man was dead, unless money was involved, Mick's instincts told him a trap. But he'd wait to come to that conclusion. "Either way, if e's fake, 'ow're we gonna get our money? I doubt this wanker 'as it, or maybe it was the original man who's borrowed in the first place? Fuck it I'm cross eyed."

Jesus, this was complicated. With a team of profiles, they'd have some kind of conclusion in seconds. And, well, Mick was rusty as hell. "Or I could just be bonkers and maybe prattlin' on about nothing."

"The money's gone. LONG gone, if any of this has gone down remotely like you said. Or any other way, really. If the motivation wasn't money...fuck, bro, this is Detroit. It couldn't NOT be money. Let's be perfectly honest here, that's all most people care about here. I'm weird. We've established that. So I'd think that-"  
"DROP IT, asshole!" The gruff voice rocks out to echo before the man strides forward, gun held steady and eyes blazing. He's large and intimidating, although a bit overweight. That doesn't disguise the muscle he's got, though. Thinning black hair and piercing eyes make him seem even larger than he is, and for once even Ethan freezes in his tracks at the appearance. "What the fuck are you doing here? Who are you two assholes? This is a DEA investigation!"

"Oh. Shit." Ethan looks to Mick in panic, the weapon abruptly moving from Krieg to Mick. Talk fast, Mick.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh fuck me."

There haven't been many instances of this in the Welshman's line of work. A thousand things went through his head, fake badges? No, he'd left those with his stuff in his car, and he had no fucking clue where that was. Tell the man he's government? American government, at that? Not with the funny accent. He wouldn't believe it. Oh shit-

"Look, calm down, man," he said, lifting his hands up to show he was unarmed. Which was mostly true. He didn't dare try and go for his 45. "I'm SSA Rawson, this is my associate, " he gestured at Ethan, trying incredibly hard to keep his voice from breaking in fear. One wrong word, and he's dead. Or worse. Less could be said for Ethan. So, he'll use his old title. Why not? Still technically true. Kinda. He was still in the database with the FBI and American and British governments, just under a different contractor. Kept him out of trouble when official business was interrupted. Which, in his experience, was next to never. "You can check your databases, I'll be listed there,"  _probably as 'public fuck up of the FBI number one',_  he thought bitterly _._  "Look, don't shoot, right? We've been trackin' an unsub down and 'e lead us 'ere, alright. We're with you."

"If you were with me you would have found the room full of the chopped-up pieces of a decomposing body resting on a fucking pile of meth in the back room."  
"Don't you mean heroin?" Ethan pipes up without so much as a moment of hesitation. That's a great way to get himself shot. The gun is back on Krieg in an instant, and the stranger's aim is steady and sure. While the man is definitely aging and not in the best shape of his life, he's a powerful force to be reckoned with. Ethan knows it, and he respects it. But this is a game, and he intends to push it as far as he can.

"No, asshole. I know what meth is. You opened one box and assumed he didn't have other product- who's the scapegoat now?" The man gestures with a sharp twitch of his weapon. "Move. To the wall. Get on your knees. And YOU- stay still or your "associate" really becomes the ass in this joke and gets a nice new hole blown through his head."

Ethan relents with a mutter of "fine, fine" and raises his hands slowly, interlocking his fingers behind his head and giving the stranger a tired glare. He lightly moves towards the wall and then kneels, feet positioned to form a triangle because of how he spreads his knees. It's a smart position that saves pain.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck_.

'I was told they were traffickin' heroin, not meth. And we just got 'ere, 'aven't really 'ad time to investigate. 'M not local, took me 'ours to find one willin' to show me around, which 'appens to be this gent."

He plays it cool, dropping any slang and keeping his thick accent in check, brought him back to his days with the Red Cell. Man, that was still raw. 

But he's got to play it cool, right? No sense in mucking it up, and getting Ethan killed. He didn't go out of his way to make friends with the little shit only to get him killed a day later. What kind of friendship was that, now? But it was best not to show too much attachment. Still, he kept himself passive, trying to keep his body language to that of a man who had no intention of trying anything. Because honestly, if this man didn't believe him, he'd be dumb out of luck. 

The armed man tenses as words spill from Mick's mouth with no real grace, all a frantic torrential onslaught meant to try and buy time. With this guy, however, that won't work. In another situation? Maybe. But this? This is different. Max turns towards Mick, his exhaled breath taking the form of a low growl and his lips twisting into an unpleasant snarl. Gun in hand still, he stares down Mick with an expression that makes it clear the sniper sounds like the biggest fucking idiot in the entire city to him at this point. Raising his hands towards his temples in desperation, he speaks.  
"Shut. UP!" He demands it, and there's no room for error. Ethan shifts and glances over his shoulder, a little smirk playing on his face. He finds humor in this? Talk about fucked up. Hey, it's Krieg. "PLEASE, you  ** _sheep fucker_** , shut up or get fucked." He isn't messing around. "You got creds?"

Sheep fucker.  _Sheep fucker_.  

"< _Fucking Asshole >_," he muttered under his breath, glad he at least had that little bit left of his mother tongue. Christ almighty. Visibly offended by the "sheep shagger" comment, he cleared his throat, brown eyes leveled in a glare. "No. Not on me at the moment. Was undercover for this job. Told to leave the 'creds'."

He dropped his hands to his side, dropping the entire shtick. Fuck this guy, he didn't care anymore. Crossing him arms over his chest, mostly to guard himself. he watched the newcomer, almost scanning him. Force of habit, but he was told to shut up, wasn't he? Couldn't help that he was pissed. Whatever, the bug guy was in charge, here.

Max doesn't know Welsh. He doesn't know Spanish. He knows English and angry yelling with weapons in hand. Whatever insult is thrown his way will be returned tenfold in moments. The undercover excuse gets a snarl, and Payne strides forward, the weapon now hovering inches from being against Mick's forehead. He will pull the trigger, and he knows enough to not do it point-blank completely.

"Bullshit. Who the fuck is he, "Mick Rawson," your neighbor? Your dealer? Your boyfriend? Some punk you pulled out of a cell to have an in for this job?"

"None. Although I might argue in point that boyfriend isn't out o-"  
"Shut the fuck up."

If Mick could smack Ethan now, he'd probably deck him.  _JUST SHUT UP YOU FUCKING PLONKER._

"A witness, alright? Expendable common street thug tired of 'is game, 'appy? You know how hard it is to get inside with some of these people while bein' a right skinny white guy with a funny accent? Next to none. So I offered a deal with 'em and 'e got me in, alright? And you can check the damn records I'm there," he caught that emphasis on his name. "Or you call my superior, Gina LaSalle."

Jesus, that gun is beyond scary. But he kept his head focused. Even though his hand was twitching and he was craving a cigarette. Hopefully this crazy asshole would back down for five minutes so he could light up. 

"HEY! I'm not a common street thug. I'll have you kno-"

"Shut. THE FUCK UP!" Payne pulls away from mick, turning and swinging the weapon to smack Ethan in the side of the head. Krieg goes down hard, curling up in a ball with gritted teeth and hands raising to protect his head.

"That's...th...that's P-police brutality!"

"I rank pretty high on that scale." Payne looms, but the threat passes. When he looks to Mick now, there's no doubt that he means business. Maybe that was his intent all along. "He's expendable? Great." The weapon is aimed and primed to fire. Max's finger curls around the trigger. "A real shame if I didn't get the real story before he died. Oh well."

Well that didn't go as planned. Of course, that wasn't how Mick actually felt about Ethan. Not at all.

Now he didn't have many friends, and Ethan being his new partner, well, that incited all kinds of protective instincts. Fuck it, he was tired of this game. 

"My name is SSA Mick Jay Rawson, formerly employed by your American FBI, sniper. This man is Ethan fucking Krieg and 'e's my damn partner, alright? 'E's just a civilian, and if you touch him, that body you mentioned wont be the only one," empty threat, he knows. But if that gets attention back on him, it could prove to be a distraction. He knows Ethan can move fast, which gives Mick that bit of confidence. And besides, what his loss worth? "We came 'ere to question Voldemort over there but unfortunately because somebody couldn't control 'imself the man's out for the count. Someone's been poisoning the supply and we were 'ired to find out who alright? 'Onest to God truth. We don't sell, we don't use. We just do what we're told."

There, truth. No lies mixed for once.

"Former. Figures." The sarcasm dripping from Payne's tone is bright and acidic. His lips curl into a snarling grin before his chin raises and he moves his finger from the trigger. "Let me guess, your partner here did that guy's face in for you? How thoughtful. Must be a sign of devotion. Not as plainly understood as what we did in my day." He lowers the weapon, knowing full well he's received all he can from Mick at this point. "People who do what they're told are the problem." He has a point, but he doesn't push the issue. "So, fuckups, the way I see it? I can't let you go because you might run off and squeal and make this situation worse. So you're going to help me clean it up. Who sent you here?"

Shit. Ratting on the gang could be bad for both of them.

"My boss. Agent Gina LaSalle. She gave me a job that landed me in Detroit, ran into Ethan, found out we 'ad a similar job," true on his part, Ethan's, well, he had no idea how to explain Ethan really. He decided if he left out the murder of a celebrity and the joining of a street gang he'd be better off. No need to tip off that they're worse off then they are.

And now apparently they had another person to work with. Mick had the feeling he was not exactly going to like this man. 

He tilted his head over around Payne to get a good look at Ethan. "You alright, E? Sorry about the expendable bit, mate. Didn't mean a word." Truth to that. He's try and make up for it later.

"I knew it." Ethan's weak attempt a humor is coupled with a bloody smile. He bit his cheek going down, more than likely. He stands slowly, but it probably isn't a good idea to do so. He leans forward against the wall and just stays there, letting out a low, quiet groan. Talk about useful. Right now, Krieg is out of commission and will be staying that way.

"Well, fantastic. A has-been and a never-was in the way of messing up my plans. Why can't I ever catch a break?" Max's sarcasm is a scathing thing, and both men have to face it now with equal solidarity.

"And you are?" Ethan isn't going to stop his verbal goading. It's putting his life in more and more danger, the idiot. Does he realize that, or is he blind to it?

"Payne."

"MAX Payne? Oh, shit, bro! I know you! Everybody knows you."  
"Apparently not by sight, which means I'm fine."

"You're in deep shit, bro. You're gonna need us." What's all this, then?

 _Has-been. Sheep shagger_. This man is full of insults. He damn well hoped that there would be an opportunity to use his gun at some point. A head that big would be nice target practice.  _Great,_  he thought,  _start hanging out with the parkour-crazed loon, start thinkin' about murder like it's nothin'. Way to go, Mickey boy_.

"Well I don't know bloody 'em," he muttered under his breath.  _Don't care to either_. He huffed as he spun on his heel to where he stashed his gear, confidence in the idea of turning his back by the fact that Payne had finally lowered his fucking gun, and dug though the nylon pockets before finding himself a cigarette. He was already running low, and what he had left was back at the safe-house apartment. Maybe he could convince them to crash there at some point. 

He's leave the talking to Ethan now. He's too frustrated and irritated to even look at the newcomer. 

"Mick, we've got ourselves a real gangland celebrity in our midst! Max fuckin' Payne. I can't believe it."  
"Do you want an autograph, asshole?"  
"Your head would be worth more." Payne groans, Krieg grins. A bonafide old married couple, these two. "Max here's ex-NYPD, and last I checked EX-DEA was more accurate. You blew the coop, bro. You've got no credentials and you've got no dirt on us. So who's paying for your bullets and the joy of your company this time?"  
"That's nome of your business, and the more time we waste here the riper the damn body im the back gets. Both of you, come look. Then has-been can interrogate the guy Modern Warfare here might have put in a permanent coma." Max is sharp with nicknames, earning him brownie points with a delighted Ethan.  
Krieg follows the taller man, and as soon as the heavy freezer door opens to a room that hasn't been one in ages a horrific smell floods out. Payne barely flinches, but Ethan coughs and throws up a sleeve. Resting in loose piles of God-knows-what drug is the bloated and blue body of...  
"Shit. That's the real Admiral, alright."

Jesus Christ, Ethan sometimes sounded like a teenage girl at some boy band concert.

" _< Asshole>_," another Welsh insult, makes for more Welsh he's spoken today than he had in months. Felt good, actually. Abandoning lighting up to follow the other men, he sighed and reluctantly followed. Maybe he just wasn't used to working with people, being on his own for so long with only Gina to tell him what to do. Ethan he found entertaining and honestly, a spotter and someone who knew how to call the shots. Excpecially when this man was apparently in the sane boat as Mick and nearly shot his head off because of it.

Rude.

"Oh sweet Jaysus that's...a dead very, dead mhmm," Mick doesn't like dead bodies. Once earned him a joke from a colleague on how a badass sniper such as himself could have such a mundane fear and well, he just never really got over it. His job didn't exactly keep him around bodies too often, even with the BAU. He's usually making those bodies. 

Especially ones that looked like blue weather balloons. He turned away, not wanting to look at it more. "What did you get me into, Krieg? Christ."

Maybe Ethan has a crush on Max. It would definitely fit the way he's acting. Stupid, arrogant little fuck that he is. And it's just all the more reason to love him at the end of the day, isn't it? His flaws are so numerous that he's a work of art. That's how the best of them tend to be, after all.

"There's your man. So why did coma patient over there do it? This isn't just some run in the sun for fame. Can't be. That's too simple. So, before you lose your lunch, go interrogate that bastard. Wake him up however you have to." Max gestures back the way they came to the still body of the injured man. "You might want to prop him up soon and keep him that way. If his sinuses and his throat fills with blood he could suffocate. I've seen it happen before. Be careful with that bone damage, though. Who knows what it could cut if it's angled right? Bleed out from a facial wound...Christ, that would be a mess with the pressure being so strong there." He's making solid points.  
"So what are we gonna do with this guy? Leave him, or...?"

"We're going to destroy the entire stash and burn him alive with it." Payne has a point. If they get the fake admiral out, it will round up nicely for those who don't realize the man had been missing. Just how much forensics work is anyone going to do to determine the time of death of a shrunken, burnt skeleton? Here's hoping any discrepancies are just filed away as a cold case with no real explanation outside of gang warfare. Strange drug related deaths are common things, after all.

"One problem, buddy. Guy owes us some dough."

"And you think you'll find it here?"

"I'll find a fucking chair," turning away from them both and making his way away from them. At least this guy wasn't dead, he rather deal with someone bloody and unconscious than blue and bloated. 

Dragging a dusty plastic chair he found next to the unconscious heap of the fake, he sighed and nearly dumped the man in, adjusting him to that his head wasn't tipped over and his tubes wouldn't be blocked. Tubes, that's disgusting. Good thing he's already got the man tied up, makes him easier to carry when you're a Welshman with the upper body strength of a small infant. But to him, strength didn't matter unless he couldn't carry his gun.

""Is man is about done and I wont be able to wake 'em traditionally," he shouted out, struggling to keep the fake Admiral's head up as he tried to light his cigarette. "Brilliant work 'ere, Ethan you really made this so much easier on us. Appreciate it, mate."

The sarcasm makes him feel better. Sue him. "Lots of hemorrhage, if we get him up we've only got a few minutes tops before he probably passes back out. If he doesn't go into shock first at the sight of 'em missin' a nose." He'd have to figure out just how Ethan hit him with that much force later.

While Mick arranges the current captive, Ethan and Max work to move the body so the entire room can be searched, just in case anything of value is being held elsewhere inside beneath the mess. Krieg finds about $200 bound up in twenties, but from its condition and placement in a far corner beneath a pile it's obvious it was just missed when the rest was removed. It's a clue, though, and they're definitely on the right track. By the time Max and Ethan are done and ready to burn the room where it rests Mick is set up and good to go.

"Here." Max reaches into one pocket and pulls out a small vial, made of a durable plastic that doesn't break easily at all. It's the same material most quick-service restaurants use so dishes can be flung around in the back. "Get this open under his nose. He'll snap out of it." He passes it over and steps back, muttering something to Ethan. Krieg moves off to do as asked, figuring prepping for the burn will be the best possible thing to do. It also gives him time to search further.

Man did know his stuff, Mick had to give him that.

Accepting the vial he peered at the unconscious man before popping off the stopper, realizing how absolutely ridiculous this had to look running under the stump that used to be this man's nose. But he doubted it would work if he forced it down the man's throat.

"Easy, mate, don't wanna toss yourself. That's it."

He can't help but keep the man's head steady for him, both out of sympathy for the fact that he's about done in and also because he doesn't want to deal with the man going into shock. That could get messy fast.

"You're gonna answer some very simple questions for us and then take a nap, alright? Don't look down. Focus on cue ball and the pretty one over there, eh. S'right." Soft voice, pretty accent, used to do wonders back in the BAU. Mick was the good cop, Prophet was the formerly incarcerated badass who didn't take anyone's shit, who usually scared even the most overconfident suspects the world had to offer. Wow, that hurt to think about. Even years after...

"Right. You awake now? Good. Now how about telling us why you're in that ridiculous outfit, hmm?"

The first words are little more than a gurgle, probably due to the blood that has to be in his throat. A whimper follows, but eventually he speaks. The words are muffled, but Mick can probably make out enough of it to get the general gist of what he's trying to say.

"Fuck you."

How creative. Ethan would jump in, so it's a good thing Mr. Iron Fist isn't here right now. Payne isn't putting up with this bullshit, and that much should be obvious.

"Can it, asshole. Answer the man's questions or I'll shove a gun so far up your ass you shit lead for weeks." It may make no sense, but it's clear he would probably shove a firearm up there if he had to. Let's not test that.

"Adorable. You certainly know your way around interrogation subjects, doncha?"

The glare he gives Payne is long and it takes him a few moments before he shakes his head. "I'd answer my question, mate, seein' as 'ow I'm the only only one keepin' you from dying here. See, my new friend over there isn't exactly patient and my other friend, well, he did what he did you your nose and guaranteed they aren't as friendly as I am. So just answer my questions in an orderly way and we'll take care of you, yeah?"

Lie of course. He just hoped that this didn't did go on too much longer. He debated on just killing the bastard and piecing together what he could if he didn't speak up. He had one chance left. Mick's patience is wearing thin,

"Is this about the money? I GAVE them the damn money! I gave it to Torres' guys and they fucking took it straight to him! I swear to god, I don't got it! I gave them their money!" He's frantic now, clearly reading body language that the men here are not putting up with any more wasted time. "Please! You've gotta believe me, man! I paid! I fuckin' paid his debt and my own!"

Well, either Torres is sending them on a fool's errand or someone is not loyal within the gang. At this point, either seems just as probable. But if there's a thief or two...how in the world do they flush him out?

Well that was disappointing to hear. 

Standing up from where he knelt, Mick sighed before taking a final drag and stubbing out the butt on the wall before tiredly whipping at his face. "S'like a fucking mystery, only keeps gettin' bigger and bigger. You 'eard that, right E?"

Well, now what? This complicated matters, made their job harder than it should have been. The only stick it the road before was their one target. Now they had too much to go on. 

"This isn't our guy," Mick grumbled, pacing and trying incredibly hard not to go for another cigarette. "This whole bloody mess is ridiculous," he looked at Payne. "Seeing as how you're taking charge in our little mission, what say you on what to do? We've got no leads and nothing to go on far as I know. This ain't our guy which means we're either on a botched run or my sources lied to me. Ad I'm not a 'appy fan of either. And I don't know, maybe Ethan knows somethin' I don't. "E generally does with these sort of things.

"And if you're still plannin' on burning the man, for Christ's sake kill 'em first. 'E told us what we wanted, least we could do. 'E ain't gonna live long anyway."

"Yup." Ethan calls out from the few steps away he is as he searches, and while he doesn't interrupt the conversation he's onto something big. From his tone and his body language, Mick can probably pick that up considering he's been around him a while now. He's also taken to the nickname, finding it a fresh and surprising twist to get one from somebody in the first place, much less one nobody has ever used before. He doesn't feel like sharing whatever's got him so thrilled, so for the moment he just shuts up and holds the secret as long as he can.

"This isn't botched. Let me guess- you're WITH Torres, aren't you? Whether permanently or not, that's why you're here. That's why he started spewing about money- the same money your partner over there is looking for." Payne is observant, but how could he not be expected to be exactly that? Due to his past job, he has to be good.

"I know something you don't." Ethan pipes up, but he's clearly working on it right now. "Don't worry, I'll snap his neck first." God.

"How generous." Payne scoffs, shaking his head. "Sounds like someone is out to siphon money off for themselves and use scapegoats to cover it up. That could be a way to gain face for the two of you, IF that's the game you're playing."

"Well you can't exactly infiltrate a gang while undercover right away when you're a skinny white Welshman with a silly accent and no ink and be 'appily accepted by everyone in the group can ya?"

Mick huffs, unsure really on what else to do besides gather up his gear and grumble to himself. He expected this to be simple, just a simple money run to get them in deep with Torres' crew. Now they had no money and no damn names. Or at least Mick didn't. Not being from here keeps him a bit ignorant. "Fuck me."

He's frustrated and almost itching to know what Ethan's found out. But when he didn't tell him right away, he figured it was either important to their mission and something Payne didn't need to know, or well, he's being five again. Either way, Mick didn't really feel like pushing it. 

But he still made sure that he had all his bags and items. Dare he forget something when they set the place on fire.

Ethan moves over and passes the money he has found to mick, in addition to a dirty plastic grocery bag with something inside and a set of car keys. He winks and brushes past, somewhat awkwardly doing so against the man's arm. What...was that about?

Ethan moves to break the man's neck, and he does so swiftly and without a moment of pain or paralysis. He knows what he's doing, clearly. The body is left to Max to handle and get ready to burn, and the taller man drags him off with the chair without a problem. He unties the man and tosses him in the room with the stash before closing the door partway and moving the chair out of the way.

In the bag is a gun and a badge.

But the question is, which "Admiral" was really a deep cover cop?

Very rarely has Mick run into this sort of thing, and it brought up more questions than answers. "So now one of these plonkers is a cop?" he whispers, shutting his eyes as if pretending what he wasn't handed didn't exist. "Great. You didn't manage to lift any ID off any of 'em did you?" would make his life a hell of a lot easier.

"Right, like it'd be that easy. So which was which? I doubt a cop would poison 'is supply while undercover, you'd never get away with that, even with how corrupt some of the police is. But I really doubt our second man 'ad a badge, just his demeanor didn't tip off anything to me and generally I'm pretty good at catching it."

He's angry he can't figure it out. He's a sniper now, not not a criminalist anymore. Years on his own and reverting back to a solider who only follows orders made him stunted to what was going on. It pissed him off.

"Just fuck my ass. This is too much."

"Gladly." Ethan replies in an unwarranted manner, and yet again it's impossible to tell if he's joking or not. "My thoughts? It's the original guy. That poisoned supply...what if that wasn't his fault? What if this new guy did that to set things off and killed him shortly after? Hell, I don't know how long that body's been dead, but the timeframe is possible, I think." Ethan has a point. "Hey, you two were cops. not me. So you guys figure that shit out. I'm just saying, my money's on the balloon."

"He has a point. Rawson? Thoughts?" Max wants a second opinion before the evidence is obliterated, after all. He's smart enough for that.

"First off, I was never a cop. I was an agent. They are two very different things," again, that sounded bitter. "We 'ave a bit more class, I like to think."

The body was decomposed enough, but Mick was never a coroner or could force himself to look at it long enough to get a T.O.D. But generally, a body had a week or two before it became lose flesh and bone. Refrigerated, the man could have been up to a month ago.

"I 'ave to agree with E. Cause a bit of corruption on the inside, create a disturbance in the under workings of the drug ring, et cetra. Maybe 'e found out the first guy was a cop, right? Cuts 'em down, takes over for the man, poisons supplies, creates a name for this wanker and manages to get everyone tied up in some kind of inner implosion to set everyone off. Could have had a partner, too."

"Cops aren't known for their finesse." He isn't going to argue with that. After all, while they're both ex-law, look how they've turned out. Mick is composed, at least, and he's getting by as well as anyone could. Max? Max drinks, pops pills, gained some weight over the muscle, and got a hole shot in his favorite drinking arm because he was too inebriated to draw his weapon to fire within a decent time frame. He's run down and running on empty. There's no argument that Mick has more class now, even though he runs with Ethan.

"See? It makes sense." Ethan's glad Mick caught on, and from the look on Max's face it's obvious he's not having trouble believing it either. "Tie this back to the shooting death we started all of this over and it makes perfect sense. Someone's using the chaos as a cover...or they created that chaos as a cover in the first place. Maybe this racket is bigger than that. There has to be at least one partner inside, because this guy would have to stay in character. So somebody had to shoot the kid down to start the gang war between the Feds and the cholos, right?"

Mick had his own fair share of nasty habits, but they were more minor than Max's could be, for sure. Smoking and light drinking kept him away from narcotics and whatever other drugs he could get his hands on. It was more fear of the addiction. Plus, he was a criminalist, his job was seeing what these sort of things could do to people. And he'd run into a couple nasty addicts in his time. It was fear that kept him alive, really.

"Right. And there's bloody no way a plan this elaborate could be done by one man. There's specific jobs you could do by yourself but something this coordinated had to to be sprung by two, maybe three if they were desperate. And I doubt the partner would be someone with a low rank, 'e'd have to be able to distract Torres enough and get 'em to focus 'is attention until the time was right to light the spark. Leaders typically stick with their lieutenants and have those people work with the underlings," a pause. "Taking down the traitor could give us a lot of face, earn us favor with Torres, might upgrade E and me and make our work a little easier. The problem with that of course, is once they manage to get dental records off the cop, his friends wont be pleased, especially if they suspect the gang behind it." 

Max knows what they do. He's dealt with the bodies, and his wife was even a victim of a drug-induced murderous rage. The killing was planned and sanctioned by the company she worked for, the twist of events so large that to recount the story would take hours if he were to tell it. His one-man war is vast and expansive, going all the way down to Brazil and back up to Jersey at a rate and fashion that would make the most seasoned of travelers blush.

"I can get the records." Max states it as fact, not just fiction. "I can call in favors. Plenty of people still owe me, even though most of them hate me because of it."

"Great. So...what's our next move, then, since we're a team right now? Besides giving you my number." Ethan holds out his hand and Max passes his phone over, and in that moment Mick might realize that he...still doesn't have Ethan's phone number but he gave it to this virtual stranger. That's...ouch?

"You and Rawson should probably stake out, look for the partners to come knocking. We leave the bodies overnight and use them as bait. I"ll get dental records taken care of in the time you two are on the stakeout. Sound good?"

"Sounds fine by me. The faster we get out of this place the 'appier I'm gonna be," he turned to Ethan, clearly not amused that contact information hasn't been shared between the two, a usually important thing for partners working together but he let it go. "We could hit the roofs. Let me get a feel for the area and sort of sync myself, if you know what I mean."

He only suggests rooftops because it's his expertise, if Ethan had any better suggestions on where to hide out, he was open too them. Plus he was looking forward to a short time of peace. And they could easily pick up food on the way. When was the last time he ate, anyway?

"So it's settled then? You'd be fine to just contact us through E, I'm sure." Very few people had his phone number anyway, and honestly the only person he could pull off on the top of his head was Gina. Secretive about that, he was. 

"Sure. Roof is good!" Ethan grins brightly and flashes a thumbs-up. "I can get down fast, too. I'm best poised overhead to act. That, and we all know people just don't look up." Ethan has a point there. He relies on that fact more often than he'd like to admit, too, and he's comfortable in the success and comfort it can give him. "I know a good Chinese place that will deliver. We get comfy up there for a while, we can wait."

"Right. I'll call you when and if I get anything on the badge and gun, and the dental as well. Stay in touch." Payne takes the items in question from Mick and hands Ethan a business card with his number on it before he heads out the way he came, to the waiting beat-up Honda Civic. He's gone as quickly as he appeared.

"Oh! Mick, bad timing, but I've got something for you. Want it now or up top?"

"Depends on wot it is, but fuck it, we got time now if you want, what is it?"

As much as he's itching to be topside, he's more or less just glad that it's back to the two of them. This weird ass possessiveness, where the hell had it come from? Mick was used to working in teams but it seemed like the second Payne showed up his tolerance levels dropped. Huh, weird.

Waiting patiently with a tick of his head he blinked and waited to see what Ethan wanted before they headed up.

"Alright. Sure!" Ethan grins and reaches down to one of the many pockets on his cargo pants, fumbling around for a moment until he pulls out a Lindt chocolate bar with a rather intricate bow and...a business card? He passes it over, looking damn proud of himself. "Partner. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have food to order." He slips away just as fast as it all went down, dialing none other than the Golden Koi and speaking in rapid Vietnamese. There's no keeping up with him, it seems.

The chocolate bar by itself is a great gesture, however he managed to keep it in-tact and unmelted aside. But the card, upon closer inspection, is not pre-printed. His number's hand-written, name signed below in a rather fitting example of handwriting. It might seem odd at first, but his obsession with the sweet led him to give Mick his favorite form of it along with the little note. It's a thoughtful move on his part.

Well the number is appreciated, the chocolate however...

 _Stop that_ , he scolded himself.  _You were a right wanker the first time you refused something from him. You eat that chocolate, you piece of shit_.

Despite the fact that he wasn't big on sweets, he accepted it and maneuvered his shoulder bag to keep it for later, pray that the cooler weather wouldn't melt it all over his documents. Because nothing spells professional government assassin more than chocolate all over his dossiers. 

Attempting to decipher Ethan's god awful handwriting, Mick finally entered his number in his phone, flipping it closed with a clop and turned away to follow the other man.

 


	4. Chapter 4

When Mick catches up, Ethan pauses to turn back to him. "Anything in particular you want, or you trust my judgment?" Thoughtful, surprisingly. "Figured we'd eat up top. I'll get it from the ground and bring it back up so you don't have to...slowly...make the trip." He grins like the smug idiot he is, keeping the phone near his face as he waits for his answer. Restaurant noise can be heard in the background, and a very familiar woman is yelling. It's pretty easy to guess exactly who that might be, given all that was experienced there last time.

"Slowly? Please," he says it like he's offended but he can't help but smirk back at him. This asshole over here was gonna be the death of him. 

Ethan had a point though. Mick wasn't exactly the fastest when it came to anything. Except sniping, of course. That was his fucking forte. He prided himself on that. 

"Fuck it. Get me a few of those dumplings we 'ad last time, if they give you some on the side. So long as you don't get me anythin' that'll kill me I'm fine with whatever you get us," it's true, worked out last time Ethan ordered for them. 

"Right. Và một số bánh bao. Rất nhiều bánh bao." He finishes the order into the phone and hangs up before pointing up to the roof. "Half hour, tops. Want to heat on up?" Without waiting to hear if protest is given he heads straight for the fire escape, leaping up with ease to snag onto the platform's edge and draw himself up. He lowers the bottom ladder for Mick and waits for the sniper to follow before he draws it back up to avoid suspicion. He follows to the roof and takes a look around, figuring they'd better scout it out somewhat. There's only one direction a car could come from, though, which makes it somewhat easier.

"City doesn't look half bad from up here at night." Krieg glances out across the sea of lights before looking back to Mick. "You'd almost think it still had some life in it."

There was always something special about the view from a roof, Mick always thought. Nearly dumping his gear on the floor and barely caring for once, he took in a deep breath of fresh air before sighing as he dug around his bag for his remaining cigarettes, frowning at the sigh of a brown smear on the edge of the carton.

But it was forgotten when he looked out over at tops of buildings as lights started to glitter out and act like grounded stars.

"S'why I sometimes love my job. Not only do you get a view, but sometimes you can actually feel like you'll cleaning it up with every corrupt politician and wanker you take off the street and keepin' it pretty," he shrugged. "Or at least it's 'ow I like to think of it."

"I like it up here, too. Lots of my training I do up here 'cause nobody bothers me. I like to take it in, rest. Sometimes I actually fall asleep on my roof, but that's another story." That explains where he might disappear to, some nights. "So...this life, what comes with it. You ever wonder what it might have been like if you took some other path?" Really, he's thinking about his brother again. It's been on his mind a lot recently. No need to dredge that up, though. He glances to Mick, now standing beside the man with arms crossed as he examines the city he's come to call home.

"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like, like...being an average Joe. Just some citizen working a normal job."

"Not really. When my mum and dad died I spent a long time doing nothing and realized it was absolutely boring. Grandad was in the army and I was encouraged when my nan could care for my sister without needing me. My whole life was centered around bein' a soldier and criminology. It's what I'm good at."

Didn't mean he didn't think a lot about being a civ, hell, his sister was already engaged and moving on to England with her fiance'. Bless Jenna, she was ignorant to what he did and that was something that kept him solid. That little piece of family was all he had left. 

"But it never hurts to dream about it, I suppose. Can't help but wonder, specially with what we are, eh?"

"Yeah..." Ethan trails off, deciding that since Mick was so open he owes the same. It isn't something he talks about much, though. He glances somewhat nervously to the other man, then back out across Detroit. "I, uh...well, with a surname like Krieg, you have to wonder what my family was up to. It isn't one I chose for myself. I was born with it. My dad was a hitman, too. So was my grandfather. My great-grandfather. My great-great grandfather, my great aunt...in this family, you kill or you attempt a normal life and die young. That's just how it is...how it was. Just me now, though. So that's ok, I guess. But...I knew early on what I'd be. So I trained and I got there. I just...made some mistakes along the way, I guess."  
Mistakes that got him cut open for most of the day for months on end while the cybernetic surgeries were completed. But Mick has no reason to know that, yet.

"We all make mistakes, mate. You're only human."

Human, that's what keeps Mick moving. He's prone to making mistakes and fucking up. That's how he is, a depressed, PTSD suffering human. And it makes him comfortable knowing that. He'd do what he does, grow old, remember the good old days, or get caught during a hit and killed. Its a fact of life he's accepted. Mortality is comfort.

Stretching out tired muscles he keeled down, legs sore from being on them all day as he rested out and leaned back on his hands, eyes never leaving the view. "Ridiculous, innit? Spewing my stuff like that," he adjusted to sit cross-legged. "We've all got out baggage though. Do what you can though, right?"

There's a bit of a bitter laugh from Ethan, but he gives a nod despite it, gaze falling as a huff of air from the nose is the final noise he makes in answer before speaking. "Right. Human. Completely, totally human. Flesh and blood and bone." He takes his queue and sits beside Mick, legs somewhat messily sprawled before him. Shortly after, he draws them in to sit cross-legged, but it looks like it takes some effort. Maybe an old injury gets stuff in this position. Someone like him has to have those, right?

"Yeah. That's all we can do." His gaze moves over to scan Mick's face for a moment and his lips part as if he were about to ask a question or make a statement. He can't quite figure out what he wants to say, though. Instead, he finds himself looking at the sniper for more than a moment longer than he meant to, something bubbling up from his chest in wordless fashion, an urge to make itself known never the less.

"Hey, Mick?..."

"Yeah? You alright?"

He blinked, watching Ethan both with interest and confusion. Generally, people didn't ramble on when someone called them human. He cleared his throat, ticking his head to the side and waited for Ethan to finish what he started to say. The way he was looking at him made him nervous. He started tapping his figures on the roof to distract himself.

_Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

_Shit. Goddamn it all. Don't do it. Don't you **fucking**  do it.  **Don't you-**_

He does it.

His movement is sure and without further hesitation, almost like none had existed to begin with. The gap between them is closed as Ethan abruptly leans over until he's inches from Mick, a gentle inhale all that stands between him and what he's about to do. It's over in an instant, his eyes drifting closed, and it transforms into a kiss as his lips move to press softly against those of the man before him.

It's a gentle thing, hesitant only in concern for the reaction it might receive. His lips are soft, his breath warm, the sensation of stubble faint against the skin. A moment's pause to breathe, now mere centimeters from each other once more. His eyes open slowly once more, searching for a reaction and hoping the limb he chose is not about to break. There's no smile on his lips, only a faint neutral line of wonder as he waits and watches.

Well then, that was unexpected. Also the first time he'd been kissed since Prophet died.

Brown eyes are wide and Mick swallows, processing what just happened like an old computer. He's confused, maybe a bit scared, as he tried to figure out what to do. The last time someone even tried he panicked, Prophet's death still too raw and open and in the end he was reminded that he was alone.

"I-," He honestly doesn't know what to say to that. But he does know that, while spontaneous things generally freaked him out, the entire thing wasn't necessarily unpleasant. "Wot was that for?"

It's all he can stutter out.

Ethan's lips twitch into a quaint little smile, eyes narrowed happily to match. A hand raises, his fingers gently moving to thread through Mick's hair. "Do you ever really need a reason?" He has a point. Unless there's severe resistance, he draws Mick closer and presses his lips against those of the man in a sort of breathless passion. Has he fallen for Mick, or is this something else entirely? It's anyone's guess, but only the two of them can figure that out.  
It's a sensual, slow thing, the contact only breaking faintly as he goes for more. As intensity builds his fingers tightem against Mick's head and his teeth gently catch the other's lower lip between them for a memt and a brief, gentle pull, inviting more exploration.  
His lips part now, hoping Mick's will do the same. His free hand moves from supporting him to sneaking over to intertwine fingers with those of the other man...  
  
Until a car horn honks from below and he pulls back, startled.  
"GET A ROOM! AFTER YOU PAY FOR FOOD!" The delicery boy holds up the bag, smirking.  
Ethan clears his throat and pulls away.  
"We'll, uh...we'll continue that. In a moment." He stands and drops off the edge, grabbing the fire escape's railing and descending completely to leave a likely breathless Mick where he sits.

"Huh."

It's really all he can think when Ethan leaves. It was sudden and he still hadn't figured out how to react. It felt like parts of his brain just shut down and literally nothing was making sense for a moment. He licked his lips, unsure why as he just had Ethan slobbering on him but it seemed to help him think.

 _What the fuck just happened_?

Running his hands over his face to try and snap himself out of it, the idea of food seemed to be enough to get his mind going. Just...he'd have to talk to Ethan later. Figure something out, maybe. More with himself. 

"Did you get my dumplings?" he shouted over the edge, making sure the important things are addressed first. 

"Yup!" Ethan calls back up with no hesitation, checking the bag as he answers. He passes over cash and a generous tip before he slides the bag's handles over his wrist and lightly jogs back over to climb back up the way he came as if it were no harder than walking up a ramp. His acrobatics are as lively as ever, although very smooth and controlled tonight for the sake of the food. He arrives and sits again as if nothing unusual had happened moments before, setting the bag between them.

"Extra dumplings. Fork in case chopsticks aren't your thing."

"Beautiful mate," Mick smirked, the sight of the food bag easily perking him back up. Rather ridiculous, but then again, he was allowed to have very minor confused freak outs. At least food kept him calm. And he was free to indulge himself. And why not, when he had the metabolism?

"So ah, impromptu make outs your thing then?" He asks, more out of curiosity than concern, peeling open the dumplings container before popping one in his mouth. "Not that I'm complaining, really, but would've liked a little 'eads up. It's just ah, it's just been a long time, y'know."

What isn't ridiculous about this situation, really? In all honesty, what's one thing about it that isn't? Maybe that's exactly why Ethan saw fit to take a chance in the first place. When Mick brings up the question, he's glad that the problem doesn't come up that he just made a move on a straight guy. It's happened before, so he's relieved that isn't the issue. He lets out a quiet laugh before reaching straight for a box of noodles and settling in to eat.

"Yeah, they kind of are. But...fair enough." He gives a faint little smile and takes a bite, studying Mick in silence for a moment. There's definitely a lot going on he doesn't know about, and it might not be his place to question it at all. "I mean...more than happy to do that again. If you're up for it." He takes a bite, not knowing what the answer is going to be.

Mick shrugged. "I wouldn't care. If you're up for it. Might be rusty," the joke is half hearted, but maybe it's time to let go. Jon died what, three years ago now? Still, even if Ethan has initiated it, he felt damn guilty. But he couldn't help it. "I just lost someone a few years ago and it makes this sort of thing a little uncomfortable. But yeah, wouldn't mind going at it again."

Frowning as he picked at the rest of his food, Mick sighed. "You know, this 'as been a lousy stake out. We've barely been paying attention. Might ah, piss off our very large and unfriendly new friend, eh?" 

"I'd notice if a car was approaching, I promise. Besides, it's gonna be a while, I bet. We're fine." He reassures Mick and settles back with his legs crossed before him, eating in comfortable silence before he asks a question that might be over the line. "What was their name? If you want to tell me, that is." There's always going to be that hanging in the way if it remains unsaid. Maybe it's time it is spoken of.

"His name was Jon, but we all called 'em Prophet. Man was damned good, 'e was incarcerated for a few years for killing a child molester. Which, naturally, perked my interest," Mick let out a bitter laugh. "You'd think it'd be easy to hide, right? Relationships within your teams are usually frowned upon. My boss at the time was a good man, close friend of mine. When 'e found out he turned the other way. Thankfully, I might add, 'cause my job was the only thing keepin' me here legally at the time. But inner corruption mixed up with bad intel and Coop getting himself done in. New boss ordered Prophet's transfer, because God forbid they lose the only man who could take down a unsub from a mile away. Didn't find out the man 'e killed's brother got to 'em until months later."

A frustrated huff paired with the realization that he'd been stabbing his dumplings as he spoke made him sigh. "Sorry, I don't talk about it much and when I do I spew it. Fucking ridiculous, all of it."

Ethan listens in steady silence before he gives a nod and speaks up again. "No, no, it's good to talk about shit like that. Listen, when shit like that happens? It doesn't matter how much of a badass you are. It's gonna stay with you. And that doesn't make you any weaker, man. It just hurts, and it reminds you that you're alive and you're alone even if you don't want either of those things to be true." He gives a faintly reassuring smile before reaching over to pat Mick's hand.

"And you never forget people like that in your life. Ever." He retracts his hand and finishes off his noodles with a satisfied sigh before snickering and barely containing his laughter into the back of his hand. With a sly little grin, he glances to Mick. "Hey, normally I'd be worried about the food and the spices for something like this, but...normally you only get half of the usual Asian spice, you know? But you've got a chance at what should be roughly 90% of it now."  
oh my fucking god ethan.

The comment makes him snort, and makes him glad Ethan's got a sense of humor. Not that Mick wasn't shy of one, but after getting all that off his chest he could use the laugh. Even if the joke was damned horrible.

"You're somethin' else, E. Guess that's a good thing, eh?"

Finally grabbing the last mutilated dough roll, he smirked before finishing it off. He wasn't the biggest fan of ethnic foods but it was starting to grow on him. And well, if he planned on staying around for a while, he should get used to something. At least the dumplings were good. 

"You know it." He finishes off his noodles and sets down the carton in the bag with a pleased sigh before he reaches for one of two fortune cookies. How could anything be complete without them, actually authentic or not? He peels the wrapper open and takes the cookie out, cracking it open. He eats it before reading, backwards from what many people seem to do. When he does read it, it's with his mouth full.

"Your smile is a curve that can set many things..." He snorts. "Straight." In bed? No, in his case, that tends to be the opposite of the truth. "Well then."

Why not indulge with Ethan, despite the fact that he rarely cared for what fortune cookies had to offer he couldn't help but want to participate. Hell he was having fun, and how long had it been really since he could say that?

"'A good way to keep healthy is to eat more Chinese food'. Well that's be 'elpfull if we were eating Chinese food, no?"

He doesn't bother with the cookie, just offers it to Ethan. He's not a fan of even slightly sweet things either, for a man who claimed to love food he was damned picky. The odd thing was, he didn't seemed to be bothered all that much. 

If only all jobs could be like this, honestly.

Ethan accepts the cookie with a grin and eats it without hesitation. The man's not exactly concerned about gaining weight, after all. He glances at his watch, then out across the visible roads and the city again. "I think it could be a few hours until anything happens. Looks like we're stuck up here for now, although dinner was good." There's a moment of pause as he gathers up all the trash in the bag and makes it easy to dispose of later, shoving it out of the way and letting out a satisfied sigh. Silence for the moment, a faintly curious glance over to Mick. Whatever it's about is up to the Welshman to figure out. With Ethan being damn hard to read to those not extremely familiar with all of his different "settings," he's still got a ways to go until he knows it all.

"We do have some bit of time. S'gonna be a long night," he agreed, looking over at Ethan with a slightly curious brown gaze. As somewhat awkward as it was, he was surprised that he didn't feel obnoxiously nervous as he usually would. Hell, he hadn't even bothered to light that cigarette he pulled out earlier. Strange, he wasn't a chain smoker by any means but by now he's be craving nicotine like a bastard. Now? He was just comfortable. 

"We could probably do something to pass the time. Though I forgot my board games and rifle's packed away so I guess there's 'onestly not much we could really do that's super fun."

He hoped that was enough to point Ethan in some kind of direction. 

"Well..." Ethan pauses for a moment, a gentle little smirk settling across his face again. "What do people normally do on rooftops? I mean...we could tell stories, invent some game to play on rooftop stakeouts, ask Siri random shit, make out, make fun of our third wheel, wherever he went..." He's...definitely a unique individual, that's for sure. He's giving Mick as many options as he can think of, the coy little expression remaining on his face.

"Well we were interrupted, weren't we? Never fun when it's interrupted. Not gonna lie though, that uh, fourth option seemed like somethin' I'd be open to. Unless you wanna see my gun," he smirked. "It's a nice one, too. Big, long, nice trigger 'n' everythin'."

He snorted. "Barrel's 'bout six in diameter. Very lovely, if I do say so my self."

"Less you just wanna fuck it and make out."

Very blunt. Too the point. Very Mick Rawson.

Ethan grins, closing the gap between them again so he's close to the other once more. "On the first date? You're straightforward. I like that." Whether it's an innuendo or he really means the weapon, Ethan grins like an idiot and bites his lower lip softly as he studies the other. "We have to start somewhere. We've got time to do more, I'm sure." The tease that he is, Ethan has no problem playing along with the game. He leans closer and exhales ever so faintly, lips gently parted until they press against those of the Welshman before him once more. He's not turning that down.

Fuck it. 

He kissed him back, slender fingers moving to gently touch the side of Ethan's face. He stopped caring the second Ethan made contact and honestly he didn't try and fight for his control back. At least Ethan was a good kisser, less could be said for a few others he's met.

Not exactly sure what to really do he tried to signal to Ethan for him to lead. More or less out of some kind of nervousness. Not that he didn't have confidence in his ability, bot he was just more or less lost on how to go about it. Strange, when you have almost o physical contact with another person for almost four years.

Ethan is happy to do exactly that, figuring it will become more natural after a moment or two. He starts slowly, the touch becoming passionate the longer it holds. His fingers move to thread through Mick's hair again, his position shifting so that he's balanced on his free arm and twisted somewhat sideways beside Mick. His warm breath is deep and steady, his kisses long and soft. There's no need to rush anything. His nose slides to the left of Mick's as he remains ever so close, the faint noise of traffic in the distance and the rumble of jets above all there is to be heard beyond insects on the crisp night air. 

His skin is surprisingly soft, his pulse rising ever so faintly just at the thrill of excitement at what he's stumbled into. Eventually, his fingers grip a bit tighter and things pick up as his lips part, a little bit of tongue going into the mix.

Oh, tongue. 

There was never anything wrong with tongue.

Mick's lost interest in anything that wasn't Ethan's lips, which, well, could you blame him? Oh, soft hair, that's a bonus, gave him incentive to move his hand from Ethan's cheek to slide his fingers back through the other man's hair, thumb lightly stroking what skin it could touch. Mick felt himself relax, following Ethan's movements, oblivious to the world outside. 

Snipers, specifically ones in his profession, never could really give themselves something to indulge in. There was always never enough time, never really a reason when all you were going to do was leave and move on to another job. And maybe it wasn't so bad for once, just ignoring everything and giving in to the way Ethan touched him. Fuck it, wasn't like anyone was going to storm up there and stop them, was there?

Hopefully not, because of all the people that could, their current third wheel would be literally the worst person to show up. If Mick's already somewhat lost to Ethan now, he'd better guard himself carefully when they're in a completely private place. Ethan shifts his position to take strain off his arm, now more or less hovering over Mick like he were about to push the other onto a bed but hardly doing that. His balance is impeccable, even in this situation. 

He's lost track of time, really, but all he knows is that he's enjoying this, and he hopes it isn't problematic for the future. It's a slow move, but a hand moves to gently rest on Mick's thigh as he draws in for a very light bite to the man's lower lip, a sort of teasing thing indicating he's definitely the sort to add a bit of spice on top of day to day activities.

Mick lost himself. For once not drunk and actually enjoying himself for the first time in a very long time. Though it did bring up questions. Questions he quieted with a simple answer: friends with benefits. He just hoped Ethan would think the same. The entire idea he panicked about it for five seconds made him smirk against the other man's lips. 

Then there were no more thoughts. Until Ethan's bite brought him back to reality and he remembered for a second where the hell he was. 

Until he gently nudged Ethan back with his nose, catching his breath for a few seconds before licking his lips and clearing his throat.

"Have you been watching the floor?" Damn, his voice sounded dry. 

Good question, it's certainly darker than it was and despite his good eye site, Mick can't exactly see down the building from his position. And any time now someone could have snuck in to find the bodies. 

"Kind of." Ethan speaks breathlessly, pulling back with a faint grin on his lips. His expression makes it clear he has the same question, but the solution that came to mind for Mick is exactly what he's hoping to hear. He's not saying no to those benefits, though. He never would. Hell, he'd do just about anything to get to that point. Thankfully, it came without any major push on his part. Maybe it's something they both need at this point.

Ethan moves away after a moment longer to glance down, lips pursing. "No vehicle's approached. I don't see...wait...wait, one sec." Ethan reaches for his pocket, pulling out a case for contacts. That's...a little strange. He sure seemed to have fantastic vision. He hunches over and removes them before he blinks a few times as the dry sensation fades. 

His eyes are impossibly bright green, and something about them is just...wrong. What the hell is going on with that? He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his sight once more, settling down to peer off into the night.

"Four approaching on foot. A fifth in a car. Maybe more."

"Wait a minute now what's with those?"

Mick's heard of impossibly green eyes but never like this. He squinted, it was too damn dark for eyes to shine like that. As pretty as they were, he had to admit it's a little fucked up. And not normal at all. 

Whatever, it's not really important. if Ethan wanted to tell him, he could. Mick's focus was on the ground now. 

"How you wanna play this?" the frustration that their little session had to be interrupted by his stupid Welsh mouth is plan in the way he grumbles out his words. "Wait it out, storm the tower, or call in our big man? These might be someone's lieutenants, which means they might be trouble."

"Or I can shoot all of them," did that sound eager? That sounded a little eager. 

"I'll tell you later." Ethan makes the promise as he lowers the scope to glance back at Mick. "I promise. But for now let's deal with this shit." Lots to discuss between them, without a doubt. Ethan keeps his scope in hand and turns to Mick completely now. "Max will be here when we need him. I have no doubt. I was expecting one guy, not all of these. It's possible they're Torres' men, looking to see that we finished the job. I can't tell their ethnicities from up here, but things are very segregated here. If they aren't Latin or Hispanic, they're not his. I'm the exception, obviously. Nobody knows what to do with me so they let me float around like I want to." He taps his fingers against the device in his hand.

"I need to find out who they are. I'll go down and chat. Just be ready to take them out, or at least some of them. I'll get my left if you cover whoever's on my right. That work?"

"Right. Either signal me or shoot a text. No one else would text me, so I'll know it's you. Or just come up with something, point or whatever. I wont be able to just focus on you so be creative."

Now on to Mick's favorite part of the day that doesn't involve food, assembling his rifle. 

Out of habit he mentally times himself as he nearly tears open the nylon case and puts it all together, mostly to be sure he's still as fast as he was years ago. He knows his SDV from front to back, and damned if he was ever slow in putting her together. 

"I'll keep them on my focus. Great thing is it'll be silent so if trouble does start we can finish them off quick before they call for back up.

"Floor is yours, E. Try not to piss them off first thing, yeah?"

Ethan watches Mick puts the rifle together, clearly impressed. His gaze flicks from it back to his partner in crime and he nods, flashing a thumbs-up for reassurance. He stands and moves towards the building's edge that they came up in the first place before replying verbally.

"Will do. Stay safe. See you soon. I still need a better look at your gun, anyway. You did promise me a tour." Two can play this game. Ethan quite simply drops off the edge, his landing remarkably light on the balls of his feet. He tucks over one shoulder into a neat sideways roll before he straightens again and walks forward to greet those there.

It takes him all of two seconds to realize who he's seeing, and by then it's already too late. These are Torres' men, alright, but he knows without a doubt this is the lieutenant that's partnered with this organization. The faces are unfamiliar in the crowd, making him think they may be hired guns and outsiders instead of actual muscle from within the organization. Operating off the books without honest help? That's a very dangerous thing to do in a town like this when your loyalties are what keep you alive and grounded.

"Ethan? What are you doing here at this time of night? Didn't Torres send you to collect money or something?" The man studies him with scrutiny, but he's at least trying to make it sound like he's jesting and is glad to see the hitman. Ethan laughs and does so with perfect embarrassment.

"Yeah...the guy only had a thousand on him. I knew he had a storage facility around here somewhere, but I've got no clue where the self-storage units are. I figured I'd just...look around."

Mick gets a text- an emoji, none the less. It's an angry frowning face. 

Peering through his scope, Mick smirked as he felt his phone vibrate and with practiced ease he quickly flicked down to his phone, reading the text before flipping it closed and shoving it back in his pocket.

He hoped that meant everyone. If it didn't well, too bad.

Bang. No, not a bang. Sounded more like a oew. A more fun sound.

It's like whackamole, hit the ones who stay still and spend a second or two chasing the other ones who panic. Thankfully, he's able to hit the sweet spots, all heads and spinal cords and through the hearts, he wasn't the best in his field for nothing of course, and there's something satisfying in watching body after body topple. Especially when you didn't have to refil your magazine. Just for show, he hits the man Ethan was talking to before a second time.

It takes him a moment before he pulls the rifle back and texts Ethan with a  _hope you wanted all of them bc I was killing them all anyway :)_ , and flipped his phone back closed before reloading in case more showed up. Nothing he couldn't handle, really.  _Having fun down there?_

 _As the bodies begin to fall, Ethan freezes in instinctive panic. When the man closest to him gets double-tapped for good measure, he flinches back and realizes his fists are clenched so tightly he's very nearly drawn blood. He exhales shakily and turns to glance up at Mick before he pulls his phone out and responds, hands somewhat shaky as he texts._  
  
u almost made me piss my pants :((  
that was impressive and kinda hot ;))  
  
Of course he would say that. He pockets his phone and gets to work, searching the leader and then two of the others for ID information. He pops Mick another text when he finds some of what he's after.  
  
these guys r hired muscle  
goons not gang  
torres dont know. we tell him n we expose the wole thing  
nobody else involved maybe? :))

The first set of texts makes him almost laugh out loud.

 _You're welcome_. 

Folding back the stand on his SVD so he could stand for a bit, seeing as how Ethan's jumped down for a while he can finally light that smoke. He waited a few moments for any sign that others may be coming until he felt his phone vibrate again. 

_This is ridiculous you text like a 5 yo.  
_ _and that sucks no more kills :(  
get us a bit of face at least.  
_ _you think they'll let the white guy call some shots? :P_

_HEY_

_Shut up i know dont rub it in :(((_

_U can kill som3on3 im sur3_

_LOL mayB idk rn_

His texts are definitely in sharp contrast to the rest of him. Figures. Ethan holds the phone up to his ear and makes a quick call, standing in and midst the fallen bodies as if they were no more than trash on the sidewalk. Maybe to him that's exactly what they're like. The conversation is brief and soon he has who he wants to talk to on the line.

"Torress. Ran into a roadblock taking your man down. Got some of the cash, not all of it. Yeah, roadblock is deceased now. I'm on the hunt for the rest of it, ok? I need a little more time. I've only got about 200. Yeah, yeah, I know! I know, bro, listen. If this works out I'll be able to double what you're missing, guaranteed. Yeah. Thanks." The phone moves from his ear and he hits the end call button before texting Mick again.

_Nothing l2ft for us h3r3_

_W3 should go b3for3 max g3ts back_

_Idk what 3lse 2 do 2night_

_Good. Five down and a celebrity doesn't do it for me_  ;)

Hell, he's a sniper. You can't blame him when generally the only things he gets to shoot are what he's told to shoot. There's a bit of a thrill in having the power to take any life you want. But of course, he had to control himself a little bit. Especially after that one case he had where it came down between him and another sniper. Damn bloody, it was.

 _We could head back to the safe-house apartment._  
rather not have the big guy know where we're squatting for now  
plus I need a refill on cigs and could use some sleep.

 _Ok good id3a i could go for som3 sl33p_  
Or not d3p3nding on how wir3d i am...LOL ;))  
  
Whatever that means. Ethan pockets his phone and glances to the mess around him. Should they just leave it for Max? Probably. The big guy seems more than capable of handling it himself, after all. If he's connected enough to get dental records there's no reason he couldn't make this happen, too. Ethan decides that's how it will go before he glances back to Mick's location and checks to see if they're good to go back home, at least for the moment.  
They're playing a dangerous game, and the only loyalty they know for sure is their own shared one. Max is a wildcard even thougj he seems sincere. Torres is a gang leader, and while he provides work he's one of the ultimate targets and could turn on them at any second. Whatever corrupt Feds caused this in the first place, too, currently have no face and are the ultimate enemy. Ethan might want something of his own out of the situation as well when all is said and done.

Disassembling his rifle and gathering what all he brought with him, Mick grunted as he maneuvered himself down the fire escape, already feeling that tendinitis creep into his left knee. Great. Just what he needed. A limp. 

Thar's what he gets for being stationary and never walking anywhere, he supposed, but the stairs and ladder climbing did little to relieve the stress he put on the joint. Made him wonder if Ethan ever sprained anything climbing up buildings like he did. Wouldn't surprise him, really.

Finally reaching the bottom of the fire escape ladder, Mick dropped down and adjusted his rifle case before making his way to Ethan. 

"Shall we then? The longer we dally the less time we have to rest before we get called out again by either Torres or Payne, yeah?"

Ethan's had a lot of injuries in his lifetime, and he still owes Mick the explanation he promised. To push his point, though, he needs to be somewhere he can show those scars, and that requires losing a bit of clothing, as ironic as it is.

"Yeah. Let's get out of here. Torres at least won't find us, but I wouldn't put it past Payne to somehow pull it off." He has a valid point. The man seems to run on surprises. Ethan leads the way back since Mick is probably fairly disoriented, and since they're on foot he knows all the best possible shortcuts. It will take a while longer since they aren't going to pick up a safe ride at this time of night. Walking side by side, the blocks pass and soon they've covered at least a mile and a half. There's about that much left to go.

"So...the eyes. They don't...freak you out? Like, completely?"

"Your eyes? Nah. They're weird as fuck, but 'onestly I've seen a lot weirder this year," It's true, he's had a demon crush half his body and once had a vampire throw a rat at him, very flattering, that part. He's also dealt with the weird and freaky side if humanity as well, though that didn't mean certain things still didn't scare or confuse him. Especially when it triggered his PTSD, now then that was a freak out. But he liked to think he's chilled out over the last few months.

"But yeah, no, they don't freak me out. Why? Do they freak out others? You wear those contacts over them, obviously not a lot of people get to really see them, eh?"

"Yeah, they tend to." He admits it with a quiet little laugh. "That's part of the reason I hide them. The other reason is I'd...rather see myself like I used to be, you know? Before." Before WHAT? He's not being very descriptive. His posture changes as he talks about it, though, and it's obvious in that moment that something very, very bad happened to this man at some point of his life to make him how he is. 

"I promised I'd explain to you. I...if you know, you might head for the hills. A few have. I...think you won't, though. But...it's up to you whether you want to learn or not." He glances to Mick, rather pensive.

"You can tell me in your own time, mate. But I don't run out on a job, and I don't run on friends. 'Onestly I don't 'ave enough to. And I certainly can't judge. So whatever skeletons you've got, I can 'andle it."  
Hell, if he could handle Jon being a murderer and hang out with some green woman who was a little bit overly anti-social and a bit of a misanthropist, he could handle what Ethan had to tell him, right? He certainally thought so. Mick was a man with the theory that every human had their issues, whatever Ethan's were, he could take it.

"Uh...ok. Well. I'll, ah...show you when we're home. But, just...listen, I guess. Some years ago when I was young and stupid...although you can argue I'm still one of those...I got cocky. And when you get prideful and you get an ego, well...ego is the enemy of parkour. At least, that's what I was always taught and told. I made a mistake. I got shot inches from my heart. I woke up to the sound of some FBI team approaching for the capture or kill and I got up, and I ran as hard and fast as I could, which wasn't very much of either. I made it about a quarter of a mile before I went down and passed out. I was sure I was dead." He pauses, inhaling deeply.

"I woke up on my stomach on an operating table. I assumed they were saving my life, although I wish they had let me die. But then it dawned on me the exit wound was on the front of my chest, because it went in through my back and punctured through. They should be working from the front to get the shrapnel out, as well as if they had to break my ribs open to get in there. Then I realized I couldn't move. I blacked in and out a lot. Lost track of time. It felt like it had been a few hours, maybe 24. Maybe 48. I don't know. Eventually I came to and there was no more surgery. I was just strapped down alone. I assumed it was to keep me from waking violently and hurting myself, or because I'd been arrested, but..." He pauses then, clearly wincing.

"I, ah...they let me up. Unhooked me from all the unpleasant shit. I wasn't really paying attention to what they were saying. And all I knew is I felt so...heavy. My limbs were just...stiff, sore, and heavy. I figured it was drugs. Until I stood up and saw a reflection of my back in metal and realized they'd cut me open and..."  
He pauses, breaking off.

"I'm a cyborg, ok?...A very, very outdated cyborg."

Mick listens, somewhat confused but also incredibly interested. A cyborg explained a lot, honestly, from how he's able to move so fast and how he can do all those jumps without hurting himself, and why Ethan was so bitter about that human comment the Welshman made earlier. It's a better reveal than finding out a man who shared your face was also a demon, which, in Mick's opinion, was a better thing anyway. Less scary to him, at least.

"I'm sorry. That must 'ave been rough to adjust to," Mick's sincerity is true, that sounds damned painful, Defiantly something he would never want himself involved in. It's still weird as all hell, and well, maybe a normal guy like he was wasn't supposed to really understand it. "That's some burden to have to carry, E. I can understand, shit, I can't understand what you went through. But fuck, I know what it's like to have something traumatic like that 'appen to you."

"Burden...heh...hahah...." Suddenly finding that the most hilarious comment that could possibly have been made, Ethan is doubled over in laughter and looks like he's about to piss himself for a moment until he gets it under control. "Tell me about it. I weigh, like...two of me, basically. I'm 247, about. Me. 5'10" me is almost 250 pounds. Seriously, not joking. Try to pick me up sometime and you'll learn the hard way." He grins faintly, but it falls fairly fast. "That's also why you're never going to see me sleeping any way but my back, unless I'm not alone. I can't rest as well that way, so I tend to want that most of the time, but not all of it. That way the weight is actually off my muscles. I can relax, you know?"

Distance is passing, and the smells and sounds of the market are on the air.

"I wanted to die. I tried killing myself once but they kept me on tight lockdown after that and I didn't get the chance again."

"So that's why the bed dipped, eh?"

The bad joke is his attempt to lighten the mood ends with him clearing his throat as he listened to the last bit of what Ethan had to say. Suicide, the first time Mick was released from his first tour in the British Army, maybe it didn't lead to suicide, but self harm was defiantly something he was familiar with. It was why he smoked, focused him on something besides drugs or doing something far worse to deal with his problems. And well, keep his mental health in check. 

"I guess we all 'ave our problems, eh?" It's all he can really say about it. 

"Yeah." He gives a faint but sincere smile before his gaze lowers again and he falls back to his normal comfortable silence. The distance closes in, and soon they're back. Ethan takes the stairwell like a normal person for once, happy to enter and let out a sigh of relief when he ends up home. It's definitely time for a shower, or at least a partway clean-up. He kicks off his shoes by the door and hesitates, then turns his back to Mick. Might as well show him. He tugs his shift off and the reason is clear. Not only are there two bullet wounds (one from a different, more recent injury), the thin white lines go across his shoulders and down both arms, even to his palms. They're faded in his hands and hidden by callouses, however.

"Got it down my legs and across my hips, too. So if you wondered, if you noticed, that's why."

Mick's just glad to be back, he's dying for a shower and had been internally debating on shaving for the past few days. Could do with leaving the beard behind.

But the second Ethan shows him the scars and he couldn't help but notice them. Jesus, he's never seen something like that before. Lots of scars in his time, both physical and mental but nothing like that. 

"Damn," well, what else is he supposed to say? "Vicious, those are."

He felt awkward for staring, he cleared his throat and turned away. "You want the first shower? I need a smoke and need to get my gear into place. Plus, once it gets around to my time I'll be a while. Probably gettin' rid of the fuzz for a bit."

Ethan doesn't mind the stares. He gets them a lot, after all, and he knows they're hard not to look at. "Sure. Thanks, bro." He grins and steps towards the bathroom, although he definitely drops his pants a bit early. Whether that was supposed to be flirting or teasing or not is completely up to Mick's interpretation. The damn cheeky bastard. The bathroom door closes halfway and he turns on the water before settling in to clean off, leaving Mick alone for the moment.

Mick looks, sturgeon facing before nodding slightly and considered what he's seen before moving on to separate his rifle from the nylon case back to it's home in a slightly beat up but far more protective rifle case. He has his standards of course.

Sniffing his shoulder and realizing that he hadn't bothered to shower or change in the past few days. That's gross. He usually never went that far. Ug, disgusting, how did Ethan not point out the stink? 

Maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought. Oh well. Abandoning the cigarettes and just rummaging through his duffle, angry that he had absolutely no organization for anything but he rifle, he finally fished out a wrinkled shirt and what he guessed and hoped were a pair of sweatpants. Maybe Ethan was into naked Tuesdays? Certainly make his lazy bastard of a life a bit easier, and he waited for Ethan to finish up.

Ethan has one change of clothes, but that's it. He packs light and is ready to throw things away and move at any moment. For this reason, nowhere he lives really feels like...home. He showers quickly and emerges with a towel about his waist and absolutely nothing else. It's also worthwhile to note he's just holding it. It isn't fastened or tucked or anything. That could slip fast.

"All yours." He brushes past Mick to the bedroom to throw on boxers, definitely dropping the towel earlier than he needed to and simply stepping over it and continuing on his way.

Show off.

Well, at least Ethan left him some hot water. 

The shower was a much welcome sensation in his life and he spent what else of the warmth that was left before the heat slowly faded to an chill he didn't notice for a solid five minutes. Too busy thinking. His mind was on the job but of course there were...other distractions that seemed to keep him torn between focusing on one of the other. 

Shutting off the water and letting out a sigh, Mick wiped the condensation from the mirror before tapping his fingers on the sink. Lots to think about, lots to decide. Fuck it.

Shaving off that mass off his face seemed to take forever. He just felt the need to be rid of it for a while. Felt good, honestly, feeling skin instead of course hair against his jaw. Honestly, he thought the beard was just ridiculous. 

Changing into the clean clothes he'd set out for himself. Mick sighed at the good sensation of just being  _clean_. "E?" he called out when he finally emerged from the bathroom. "What you up to mate?"

"Lost the beard? You'd better not expect me to shave. This stays. I look ridiculous without it." He motions to the facial hair and stubble, grinning. He's laying on the bed with a book in his hands in nothing but boxers, still faintly wet and apparently not caring. He's above the covers though, thankfully. The tattered copy of Heart of Darkness is clearly well-loved.

"I don't know. I've got nothing for the night." He sets the book down and sighs pleasantly. "Finally time to relax, I guess."

"Agreed, though I have a few things I need to check into for myself before getting some R and R," he sighed, moving his way over to rummage through his bags and yank out his laptop, moving towards the opposite side of Ethan, sitting cross-legged and powering the old thing on. "Gina 'asn't called for updates and I've been needing to check and see if I've been paid on the Devito job. I still owe you for it, even if we aren't paid. And knowing my employer well, he doesn't exactly like to pay his employees well." 

"Devito Job", fucking ridiculous. Still, even if he didn't get paid for it, it was still a hilarious story they'd have to tell anyone. "Hi, I met this one asshole once, we killed Danny Devito together. Found out by 'is fucking watch. ridiculous, innit?".

"What you readin' there anyway?" he asked as his computer finally loaded up his E-mail. Gonna have to try and steal better wifi at some point. But he's not really curious, just wants conversation. The rest of the apartment is, well, uncomfortable. Even though he feels like he's at a damn sleepover, he can't help but crave to have a chat.

"Heart of Darkness. Joseph Conrad. It's my favorite book. You heard of it?" Ethan asks in curiosity before he not-so secretly moves to peer over Mick's shoulder and creep on his emails. "I'm not worried about money. It's all yours, really. Just give me fifty to live on for a while and I'm golden. So long as YOU hang around a while." He's sincere about that. He reaches for the book and opens back to where he was before reading a passage with clear fondness. The rhythm and pacing of his tone suggests he might have part of it memorized, or has at least read it out loud more than once before.

"The volume of tone he emitted without effort, almost without the trouble of moving his lips, amazed me. A voice! a voice! It was grave, profound, vibrating, while the man did not seem capable of a whisper." He closes it reverently and sets it on the nightstand. It's a worn copy, but clearly well-loved.

Mick thought for a moment. "Never heard of it. I don't get much time to just sit around and read. Generally I'm either checking e-mails, sleeping, or traveling for jobs. This is 'onestly the longest I've ever stayed in one place for so long," he said, frowning when there was nothing but new job contacts listed from his inbox. Letting out a huff he shut the computer and slid himself down, feeling his tension leave the second he adjusts himself on the pillow. 

"And you want me to 'ang around? Really?" He couldn't help but smile at that. "We are partners, ain't we? Generally those do tend to stick together."

He's got a point. 

"You...want to? Thank God. I was worried you weren't gonna...but then I hoped after the roof you might...yeah." He smiles in relief and lets out a quiet little laugh before he settles back, somewhat against the man beside him. "So, uh...about that. We can't just ignore that, so...I was gonna say...I mean, probably more comfortable in a "with benefits" situation, you know? I mean, I'm polyamorous and all, but..." He throws it out there, praying to whoever's listening Mick agrees.

Partially because he doesn't want to look like an idiot, get called selfish, or let that be a one-off thing that never happens again.

"With benefits would be lovely. I'm...not exactly...," he waved his hand in the air, thinking of a word. "Ready, for a relationship still, you know? S'like, I just just can't bring myself to it. Fuck I don't know. But something to relieve the stress? Yeah, I'd like that."

He dug his palms against his eyes, stretching out and groaning as something popped. "I 'ope you understand that, though. I mean, it sounds silly really, still 'ung up after all these years, but there's some things you just can't let go of."

He rolled over, tired, narrow eyes peering up at Ethan. "You down with that, E?"

Ethan stays on his back for the moment, glancing over at Mick with somewhat bleary. The question gets a nod before it gets a response, and then a yawn stifled in one hand that breaks into his words. Graceful.

"Yeah. Good by me. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I just want to let you know, though, I do have other partners. If that bothers you, I understand. Bothers most people." He gets poked at a lot for that. He just learned it's best to make it open so nobody gets butthurt and claims he didn't say a thing about it even though it shouldn't need to come up at all.

"I'm about to pass out. I can feel it."

"I 'onestly don't care who you sleep with or have a relationship with, man. Or 'ow many. I just care that you don't fuck me over on it. I don't put my trust in a lot of people. S'not like you're my boyfriend and I 'ave to be possessive anyway. Sure you have a few who'd skin me alive if they found out what we did on that roof, right?"

He really doesn't have anyone to trust anyway, snipers are generally loner types but what few friends Mick has had are either dead and buried or ended up leaving him behind later. Hell, his Nan still barely spoke to him, the only family member who cared enough to reach out was his sister. Then again, Jenna was all the real family he had anymore anyway.

"'M not worried about it though. I trust you," and with that he rolled over, letting out a sigh before trying to force himself asleep. Apathetic, not necessarily completely uncaring, but he's learned that some things should have restrictions on them.

"Hah...yeah. I'll keep him off your back, though, promise." And in the process end up with him on his own instead. Not that he's complaining. "I trust you, too." Just for reassurance. It can't hurt to say those words, right? Ethan shifts, and then has second thoughts. Does he want to...? No, he can do that another night. For now he's content to remain where he is and worm his way beneath the sheets to get some rest. Something tells him the next stage of this wonderful series of issues is going to be the biggest one yet.

Not that he's complaining or anything.

There something shitty in never dreaming when you slept. Mick didn't have nightmares, one of the few things he was actually incredibly grateful for. No dreams about war, no gun shots in his head, nothing that stuck on his past and made him relive it day in and day out. 

Which was odd for a veteran, he heard. But no, he never had nightmares. And some nights he never dreamed. It made sleep long and unbearable, made him agitated when he didn't get his coffee in the morning. He could hear himself snoring, not a bad sound but it was enough to keep him awake until he drifted a bit. Obnoxious, all of it.

It took maybe another two hours to fall asleep, actually fall asleep. when he moved he felt Ethan next to him but ignored it, trying to just completely black out and wait for that dreaded morning to come. Oh well, he'd had worse nights. He just hoped he wasn't a burden to the man beside him. Not much he could do about it, really.

Burying his face in the pillow and just trying to keep himself asleep, Mick could feel the hours creep by before morning crept up. But he was going to attempt to sleep as long as he could.


	5. Chapter 5

Ethan rests peacefully for quite some time, clearly falling asleep fast. He dreams, but they're more little vignettes than solid stories he could tell in the morning. He doesn't move, snore, kick, or make a fuss. He's a solid sleeper with light breathing, but it's clear Mick's movement and snoring doesn't bother him at all. He's out like a light, and it's a safe bet he tends to be that way most of the time. He could probably sleep through a hurricane given how quiet he is now.

Morning comes, and there's a quiet beep from a phone alarm at 9. Ethan wakes with it, eyes twitching into a tight squint closed before they open and he forces himself to move moments later. He sits up slowly, loathe to leave the cool blankets, and slides out of bed. He reaches somewhat blindly for his phone and flicks through the lock to check texts.

There, one from Max. Good news, too. That's welcome.

"Hey, Mick. Bro, we've got a lead." He reaches over to poke at the man beside him, up or not.

"Five more minutes."

He probably wasn't going to be useful until he decided he wanted to be. Pity that it seemed the only time he was comfortable and not suffering from some kind of RLS is in the morning before he wakes up. Groaning into a stretch, he felt his back almost crunch and ignored the whine of sore muscles. He actually felt pretty good for once, even after having a night of nothing but tossing and turning.

"Ima need coffee," he said groggily, not happy about being awake at all. Then again, it's damned early for him. He couldn't remember what time he woke yesterday but the usual time for him was around eleven at noon. He was a night owl, the best shots to take were when it was dark and no one could see up the roofs. 

Nearly throwing himself out of bed and barely noticing where he was going, he shuffled out and worked on his daily three cups, debating on skipping breakfast or not. Maybe he was just more curious in what Max had to say. 

"He give us any ah, details or is 'e wantin' to meet up somewhere?" He called out, waiting almost impatiently for the old coffee maker to get going.

Ethan isn't as stiff as one would expect given what he told Mick, but he's clearly warming up, too, and reminding himself that he's got to carry the load and he can't just shrug it off. He stretches out his arms and rolls his shoulders, in turn popping his neck.

"Make it. I got some. Instructions aren't in English but you're not an idiot, so I think you're fine." He grins and moves away, not one to eat breakfast. He gets dressed quickly and stumbles into the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth and gets his hair in order and spiked back to where it needs to go. Satisfied, he joins Mick once more as coffee is brewing.

"Max got records. The first guy, the balloon? That's our cop. Undercover Narc. DEEP cover, as in went to prison to cement it. This isn't some low-grade shit. This was an attempt to bust down doors city-wide, not just one gang. And that makes it even more dangerous. We don't know who else is angry with the dead guy, then, and we don't know why  Torres' dirty guys installed their own version."

"S'lot of effort to go to just to go undercover, mean I've 'eard stories but never seen anything like this," Mick muttered when Ethan finished, angry at the fact that the coffee was too warm to just shove down his own throat. "So the second man was Torres' then? Doesn't make sense why 'e sent us out to collect from the man if he was 'is own plant. Maybe I'm just to tired to think about it, yeah?"

Scratching at his face and yawning, Mick went ahead and set up his third cup before even finishing the first one. "So once I wake up, what's next? Tell Torres we took down 'is traitor or meet up with Maxxy? Thing is, if we get close enough we could probably easily find out about the plant. Which is fantastic. I believe we still 'ave a bit of time before the Feds show up for the cop. Gives us time to get real close to the gang, yeah?"

"Nah, Torres didn't set this guy up and send us after him. That guy you took down who was talking to me- THAT was one of the dirty guys. Whoever was playing Admiral was just someone hired to do it, just like the other guys Big Bad brought with him you took out. There's got to be at least one more of significant rank in the gang. I'm not saying it doesn't spiral back to Torres in the end. Hell, he could be using us to scapegoat. But we have to climb one rung at a time and don't look back at the pit of bodies we leave, right?"

Talk about romantic morning after talk. Not that it's really "the morning after." Ethan gets a drink of water and lets it hold in his mouth for a moment before he exhales and then swallows it down.

"I think we should report to Torres. Unless you disagree. Either that or we wait for Payne's info and start hunting the cash."

Ah, well, his confusion can be forgiven, he is half awake of course.

"Right, yeah, we'll see Torres. Maybe we'll get bonus points for leaving no squealers, eh?" Mick smirks, feeling obnoxiously proud of the way he took out the "dirty guys". Then again, even he had to admit he was impressive. Narcissistic, much? 

Finishing off the last cup and not even bothering to change out of what he slept in, he yanked his coat from where it covered his case in the living area and shrugged it on. He didn't even bother with the nylon case, he went instead with the ratted faux leather on metal and adjusted the strap so that it hung against his backside, looking awkward but really, it was too early for him to care. "Shall we then?"

"Let's go." Ethan sets down his almost empty glass of water by the sink and moves to the door, once more taking the stairs like a normal person. Impressive- he's adapting. Mick better not think he's domesticating him, though. That would be a bit too far.

They go on foot, and Ethan clearly knows the way well. This is home, and has been since...May? May seems about right. He came back onto the grid back in April, and the entire world, save for John Constantine and an unnamed 'Driver', thought him dead. Talk about a turn of events. If he's enough of a bastard to fake his death that horribly, then just what else is this man capable of?

Of course, Mick doesn't know that.

Back in the game, back to the HQ, and Torres is waiting outside. Is that a good or a bad sign?

"Ethan! What the fuck WAS that, mijo? My guy running with hired thugs? That's just...I knew he'd been acting odd, but..."  
"This isn't a good place, bro. We think there's another. I can't tell you all now, but..." He hands over the $200 sheepishly. "We'll find the rest. Promise. But that's what I've got right now."  
"That's pretty pathetic. I could get more pimping you out."

"Hah. Funny." He gives a weak grin, clearly perturbed by the comment.

"Rawson! NICE shooting. I think you're staying on full time, if you want it."

He shrugged. "Why the fuck not. Could use more things to shoot," he's dead serious about that. He's got a borderline addiction to the adrenaline of sniping, and well, if his shooting earned him a spot undercover then why not indulge in a little murder?

Oh, God, that didn't sound sane at all. 

But that was just his persona for the gang. Some skinny ass white dude with the eyes of a eagle able to shoot anything Torres points out to him. Well, honestly, that was no different than he actually was. Sheesh. Maybe one day he'll get to go under as the generic sandwich guy at the deli. Generic Sandwich guy never gets himself caught up in gang wars.

Though it's a little awkward considering, well, everything about him is different than everyone else here. But he's accepted, and that's what matters. And Torres now knew what he was capable of. Nothing too bad, really. 

Torres just laughs. He deals with crazy all the time, after all. That's part of being in a gang- nobody normal joins gangs. Everyone's a little bit messed up, that's for sure.

"Fantastic. You and Ethan both, we'll talk job opportunities when we're done with this shit."

"Sounds good. So we're gonna go fishing for a rat, and hunting down some cash. Don't send anybody after us- you'll hear from me if we're alive, and you'll also hear from me if either of us gets arrested. Sound good?"

"Yeah. See you later, and happy hunting!" Torres waves and walks back inside. Ethan abruptly bristles when the man is out of earshot, swearing in German. He turns and marches away, clearly uncomfortable. It falls soon enough.

"Ok. Now we learn what Payne has for us, hunt down the guy's house, get the cash, if it's there, or if any of it is. If not his house, we use the house to find clues where else he'd keep it. But cash like that? It's generally close to home, where it can be inconspicuously monitored."

Mick notices Ethan's discomfort, but he doesn't question it. 

"Wonderful. He if he is there at the house, and if I can get a good angle, I can take 'em down. Houses aren't the best for me though, so unfortunately if you're talking an apartment I'm about useless with my gun," ug. Something he never wants to admit, but it's best Ethan knows his limitations. But he's had enough training for clearing out a residence or any other place without his rifle, too. "Did Payne give us a place to meet or does 'e want a call?"

He prayed for a call. That man scared him. 

"Nah, man, the house belongs to the dead guy we questioned, and we can get the cop's address, too, although there probably isn't anything there. He's deep cover, after all, so he might not even have an address to give us. But the guy whose face I punched in said he gave the money to Torres. It was an obvious lie. He meant to hand it off to Torres' men, right? The same ones who showed up to collect he rest of it and the goods, and probably dispose of him, too. I think he was dead whether we got there or not, but now we have the possibility of finding the funds."

Ethan opens his phone and calls Max, getting a curt reply and a short conversation before Payne hangs up. Ethan winces and slides his phone back into his pocket. "Not a friendly guy. Ok. Noted. We're going to the address itself. Good to walk?"

"So long as my bad knees don't kick in, lead the way, mate."

Adjusting his case strap so that it stopped banging against his back. Clunky the thing was, but really it's banging felt like a constant reassurance for him. Rubbing his face, not used to feeling skin instead of hair, Mick's eyes flicked from the buildings down to Ethan's face.

"You alright, E?" he asked finally, tapping his fingers on his thigh in a sort of tick. "You seemed a bit uppity after Torres left us. I mean, a bit more uppity than usual."

"He's an asshole." Oh, is this personal somehow? Krieg seems professional enough to know that mixing personal and business life can cause a mess, yet he still seems to do it frequently. It's up to Mick whether he's really going to try and ask what went down to make Ethan so bitter so quickly. It's anyone's guess, otherwise. Offering no further explanation, Krieg continues on his way and changes the subject.

"So...this job. Why'd you come here for it in the first place? You knew what this city was like, surely. You looking to find something here beyond money? Because there isn't a damn thing. The whole place is a wreck, and it's just getting worse." He's prodding Mick a bit, trying to learn more about him.

He accepts the change in subject, not exactly caring either way. 

Mick shrugged. "I was pointed in the direction, 'ad a job to do, and 'onestly I never turn down a good job. And I might be a pretty boy from Europe but I've seen some shitty places and been in shittier situations. S'like, I dunno, when you brought up the job the old thought of "maybe if you can take down enough drug dealers and criminals you can feel less like a serial killer" sorta came up I guess. And well, not all of it is for money, really. Keeps me from snappin'," he tapped the side of his head, "not all is right in Micksville, mate. Sittin' behind that gun, keeping my focus on something to kill, with reason of course, that keeps me a little grounded."

Maybe it was more because he's scared. Being alone for so long and losing what he did, on top of already having minor issues from his military time, shit, it was enough to drive anyone nuts.   
"I dunno, the job just sometimes makes me feel like a vigilante. Kinda keeps the blood flowing, yeah? So like, being here, seeing this mess, kinda keeps you going, keeps you focused. And place like this, work has to be a continuous thing, eh? So maybe if I kill the right person, I could actually be doing something good with it."

Not all is right in Ethanville either, but he would never admit it. Mick will either be driven away from him before learning or will see it firsthand, so which one will it be? The idea of feeling less like a killer gets a grunt and a nod. "Yeah...sometimes I...think about that. I feel so normal, so...average. And then I take a job and even though that life continues I'm plotting a death. I'm plotting to end someone ELSE'S normal, average, maybe even extraordinary. And for what reason? Nothing that concerns me beyond money. I feel like I'm a sick and twisted fuckup sometimes, but...I get by. I'm no vigilante. That was my brother's thing."

His brother is rarely mentioned, and when it does come up he tends to get angry at himself for saying it. He missed his own slip this time, for better or for worse.

He raised an eyebrow, this was the first time he's heard of a brother. A vigilante brother, no less. Makes Mick all kinda of curious, and he can't help himself. "Brother?"

Maybe he shouldn't have asked. He makes it a clear point to let people get their stuff out on their own time, but for some reason he's interested. Maybe because Ethan never came up as the kind of guy who dwelled on things to Mick. Or was that because Ethan's never really brought up something this personal before. Sure there was the cyborg thing, but give Mick enough time and he probably would have figured it out himself. He scratched at his scruff, almost regretting asking for some reason. 

"Yeah." Ethan's reply is curt, and he pauses in angry silence as he walks before he speaks about it. "Name was Mark. Same job as me. Family business. Did his first hit, got scared, fucked it up. He got knifed in the torso and I had to drag him to safety. He was shaking and bloody and swearing he'd never do it again. Changed his name, left the business. Left me. Fucking abandoned...everything we were. Everything we had. Took another name. Thought he could run from who he was. Cleanse who we are. The bastard even..." He pauses, then stops before explaining it simply in a remarkably steady adnd solid tone.

"He's dead. I killed him."

Mick listens, surprised Ethan's telling him any of this. That's a lot of a burden for one man, and it sounds like Ethan doesn't really tell anyone by how upset he is over it. Mick can't relate, he's the only one in his family, and hopefully the last, to chose this line of work. But he still waits until Ethan's got it all out. 

"I'm sorry. Must've been 'ard for you," he replied in an almost somber tone. What else can he say? That's a deeply personal thing he's told him. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he hoped Ethan didn't notice the nervous tick of picking at his fingers in his pockets. Now he regretted leaving his cigarettes behind. "I can't imagine 'ow that must've felt, mate."

"I shot him three times. Once in the head, once in the neck, once in the spine. Overkill. I couldn't stop pulling the trigger and that's what I had left. If I had a hundred more rounds I would have put them all in him." Ethan's words are quiet but sincere, and it's a scary thing. He inhales deeply before letting the breath out, gaze dropping to his feet as he walks. "It was me or him, and I chose me. Never been good at the self-sacrificing thing." A pause.

"He had kids. Two of them. They didn't know who he really was. They don't know I exist. I'm not going to tell them."

They're a few blocks away after covering so much ground. He doesn't offer more about the man and what happened, so Mick is left to wonder.

He doesn't say anything, mostly just trying to absorb the information Ethan's given him. It's a lot to process, he figures that if he just keeps his mouth shut he'll figure out what to do with what his friend has said. 

Thankfully, they're close to their man's house so Mick's figured Ethan'll get his head in the game and Mick can stop feeling so damn...awkward. Shit.

"Right. Um. Refresh my memory, mate. 'Ow much are we lookin' for?" He can't help but want this job to be over with. Not because he wants to leave, of course. He's grown attached to their arrangement, but damn if this entire thing did stress him out completely. Plus, well, the added baggage of what Ethan's told him. Didn't change his view of Ethan either, he still trusted this man, and well, he did say he'd stick it out until the end.

"We're looking for just under 5k, since we had two-hundred of it. If there's more for some reason, we take it all. We don't pocket it, not that either of us needs much at any given time. We want a reward, we ask Torres directly. He'll trust us more that way." There's the house- it's in a sleepy and worn-out neighborhood of starter and rental homes, with a small front lawn and a large, high fence around the back with faded white paint. The driveway's cement is cracked. The garage door is old-fashioned. Nobody seems to be home. There's a gate, though, and Ethan moves to it to give it a test. Chained from the inside- not just locked. Bingo.

"This is the place. We need to get in the backyard." I can climb but I don't know if I can pick this lock. You gonna be ok?"

"Yeah, shit, I don't think even I can pick that, can't see the lock from this side and going in blind with a kit isn't my idea of fun. I'll keep a look out for trouble. Text you if anythin' comes up. Try and look less...like a weird ass dude 'anging out in front of some guy's 'ouse."

"Text me when you find something good, eh? Be nice if we caught a fucking break and managed the bloody money," patting Ethan's shoulder before turning away from him and attempting to make himself look less conspicuous, scrolling through his phone and pausing on Jenna's contact information. Good thing that most folks are at work during this time of day, but you never knew when someone would see him and panic. "Take your time, I'm gonna make a call."

"Right." Ethan gives a little grin before he moves towards the garage. His action is simple, and it clearly takes some strength. He leaps and snags the lower edge of the peaked roof, where the triangle's bottom is closer to the ground, he moves up a bit, hand after hand, and finally swings a leg up on top to pull himself over as well. Given how heavy he is, the smooth brevity of all he does probably carries a bit more weight in Mick's eyes now. 

Ethan lightly drops to the ground shortly after passing the fence, falling into a neat crouch. He stands and moves forward, checking the lock. It's a heavy-duty Masterlock, and the little tool he does have in his pocket isn't going to do it. He isn't skilled enough to pick it with all of them, anyway, more than likely. Time for plan B. He searches, the yard covered in dead leaves from a tree he can tell instantly has been affected by weevils of some nature. An unfortunate way to go, given that it's likely going to spread to all the other trees surrounding it and further without treatment. He wonders absently if the dead man ever got help with that before he moves in to search.

There's a shed in the back, a small corugated metal one leaning due to uneven ground and years of abuse...abuse meaning sitting unused and uncared for, nothing more than a dumping ground for items that need to stay out of the way, like holiday decorations. He considers looking inside, but what catches his attention first is a little hollow at the edge of its base like an animal had dug beneath it. At first, that's exactly what he considers. Heaven forbid he reach down there and get mauled by some raccoon, or worse an armadillo. Ethan Krieg, leprosy patient. Joy.

However, keen and sharp unnatural eyes pick up on...something. A glint of metal. Maybe just a lost nail? Either way, he's curious. Checking the ground for dog shit and rusty  metal before doing so, Ethan lowers himself to his stomach and peers down inside, bright green eyes illuminated enough to give him something of a weak version of night vision as he peers into the hole.

There. four duffel bags. Bingo.

He reaches for his phone and quickly texts Mick.

 

_found som3thing not sur3 what_

_looks good_

_will hav3 2 toss ov3r 2 u 1 @ a tim3_

He feels guilty whenever he can't call her, Not like Jenna's holding it against him, she might no know what he does for a living but she respects the fact he's busy. Still, he can't help it, maybe it's the guilty older brother part of him. Keeps him from sinking under, probably, having his sister still close in his life. 

Hearing the pings of an incoming text, Mick ended his call, promising about a hundred time more often to call her again, and checked what Ethan's sent him. 

_Is your e button broken?_   
_K, try and aim not for my face_

Pocketing his phone and huffing, Mick waited but the gate, trying to peer in and see what Ethan's found. He's curious, he can't help it. He just hoped what Ethan's throwing over isn't something that's going to flatten him. Wouldn't that be great, Mick out of commission before anything goes down. 

Ethan fishes out five duffel bags and a metal box. Curious, he breaks the padlock holding the zipper pull-tabs together on one with his extraordinary strength and peers inside. That's...that's not cash. And at first, he doesn't really know what he's looking at. Eventually, though, he does. Feeling sick to his stomach, he drops it and steps back, about to puke. Hacking and coughing to keep it down, he swallows dryly and finally calls Mick. His voice is shaky with rage and disgust, honestly just a step away from terrified.

"Mick. I found the money. I found something else. Mick, I...God. Just..." He can't form his words. He zips the bag back up and walks to the fence, still on the phone, and tosses it over. "Inside. There's money and something else."

"Mate you alright?" His concern is easy to hear in his voice as he manages to catch the bag, almost toppling over. "It sounded bad. I don't know if I want to look."

He doesn't want to look. Not with how Ethan sounded on the phone about it. But it was probably important to the job, right? Setting aside his nervousness, he balanced the phone between his shoulder and face and worked open the bag, careful not to accidentally hit the end button as his eyes widened once he worked the zipper open. And then he sees. 

"Oh my fucking God. Ethan, what is that?"

Inside, the bottom is laden with drug-laced money. In ziplock bags are severed fingers, rotting and bloated, some whithered and bony. But the worst part is what seems to be snapshots from a snuff film. Brutal torture, dismemberment, rape...and the worst part is, not only is it both genders...but there are children being cut apart. They're dead, thank God, and there's no pornography involving them, but...

The sound of Ethan choking back throwing up once again resounds. Apparently it gets worse. He heaves over the rest of the bags and sits down in the back yard with his back against the fence, chest heaving.

They're even worse.

The money's there, though. But something else makes his voice crack when he speaks through the fence.

"Torres is in some of the pictures."

"Jaysus!" Mick covered his mouth, forcing himself to look away. He can't fight it, the mix of the images and dead body parts too much. At least he makes it to the grass, dry heaving and trying to force what he saw out of his head. His uneasiness around dead bodies felt like it had been amplified to a full on phobia triggered by what was in the bag. 

When he was finished with being sick, Mick wiped his sleeve over his mouth before yanking the zipper shut. "Christ," he wheezed, regretting instantly what he saw. Almost shaking, he looked over at Ethan.

"We need to finish this. That's just, no, fucking ridiculous," he's angry, and he has every right to be. He's surprised he doesn't walk out. Doesn't tell Ethan to go fuck himself and finish this on his own. Dear God, what he saw was utterly brutal. And all it does is make him furious. Especially knowing he's working for the man who was responsible for most of it.

Ethan eventually climbs the fence again, gathering up the bags and then making a quick call to Max. His voice is quiet and his hand is shaking, but he speaks never the less. He's getting them a ride. He hangs up and looks to Mick, an expression of utter despair on his face twisting in a heartbeat to something so horrifically perverse and violent that it's like another man is before him.

"I'm going to fucking slaughter him. I'm going to torture him for days. I'm going to make him feel every bit of it."

"Good. I hope you rip his bloody heart out," Mick huffed, feeling Ethan's rage about it. He looked down at the duffle. "What you wanna do with that? Burn it, extract the photos, or force feed the fingers to Torres?" he hoped for burning it. The evidence they found could be used a lot of ways, and maybe asking Ethan as angry as he isn't isn't a good idea.

Mick didn't care. He just wanted it as far away from him as possible. He wanted this job done.

"We give it to Max and we keep one photo. And we rip him apart while Max calls in the Feds." Ethan's words are firm and true, although he's clearly not clear-minded. "And whem he's suffering we don't end it. By the time they come to arrest him there will barely be anything left to arrest." He reaches to ome of the bags, picking a photo. He stares at it im silence before tucking it into one pocket. He looks at Mick silently, unsure of what to say.  
Thankfully, nothing is needed. Payne shows up right on time, alone but with a big SUV. He's dressed in a suit this time, a bit finer than he used to be. He's armed, too, just in case. He studies the situation for a moment after he approaches on foot and speaks shortly before coming to a halt.

"What the fuck is this shit?"

"Hell. Something you know well. Evidence to take our guys down, and then some."

"So what's your price for it? A prize that good? No con I know will give that free."

"No money. Withhold the raid. Give me time to get in myself."

"You're asking me to let you brutalize him. You realize that, right?" Payne stares dowm Ethan, testing his resolve.

"Yeah. Something you're no stranger to doing while your bosses turned a blind eye."

"Fine." Payne looks to Mick. "Help me get this to the car?"

"Love to," Mick muttered, yanking up the bags and pulling open the back door, haphazardly tossing them in and feeling incredible relief of the idea of them just being gone. Fucking disgusting. Thankfully, none of them were incredibly heavy. 

"Right," he muttered when he returned, rubbing at his eyes. He was stressed over this entire thing, and reasonably so. He’s not all used to jobs like this, and the entire idea of it is starting to take his tole on him. At least Ethan had his goal in his mind, and if he does it right, well, nothing bad could go wrong, could it? When he made his way to Ethan, he leaned in to whisper. "As much as I want to shoot the bastard with my entire magazine, I just want to be sure that you're sure about this. Like, full on, completely sure. I'm not questioning you, mate, just wanna make sure you're in the right place."

"I'm full on sure. But I'll give it a night, ok? I'll give it a night. Let's just...let's just go home. Get a pizza. Watch a movie. Something. Anything. Fuck." Ethan seems about ready to curl in on himself at this point. "We can take care of it tomorrow. Right now I just...I should wait. Think with a clearer head. Put some time between me and this, you know?" He's got some reason in him, it seems. He waits for Mick's answer pensively.

"Yeah, E, we'll go home," he's glad. It's still relatively early but Ethan looked like he could use the rest of the day off. And well, Mick isn't going to argue. Specially when the idea of pizza is brought up.

Looking over to where Payne was, he debated on what exactly he was wanting out of this. Hell, three days in and he's already put incredible trust in Ethan, he just hopes that they've made the right decision. But if Ethan was sure, well, then he was sure.

"You ready? I'm about dying to leave," he asked, scratching his face. "I doubt Payne's gonna 'ang around any longer either, what with what we've given 'em."

"Stay in touch. I won't act on this until you tell me, unless I don't hear from you for two days, ok? You've got 48 hours. Make them count." Payne seems to be numb to the trauma. That leaves Mick to wonder exactly what in the world Payne has been through to get him to this point. It takes someone damaged to notice others of the same kind, after all.

Upon being asked if he's ready to leave, Ethan nods and follows Mick in silence, directing by curving the direction he turns in so it doesn't feel he's doing so. Eventually, he does speak again.

"Fuck, bro, I'm...sorry you saw that. I didn't think..." He sighs and shakes his head, angry at himself. "Yeah. Ok. So there's that. I'll order the pizza, ok?" He gives a weak smile and then falls silent the rest of the walk home. It isn't an uncomfortable thing, though.

Up the stairs, back inside, he moves to the bedroom and dials the phone, closing the door halfway behind him. As it's ringing, he pulls off his now-dirty shirt and tosses it to the floor as he waits. Finally, he gets them on the phone. He orders pepperoni with pineapple (always safe, and easy to pick undesired parts off) and then kicks the door back open.

"It's alright E. You don't 'ave to apologize. S'not your fault." 

It really isn't. And Mick ca't blame Ethan for any of this. If anything, it's Mick's own fault, accepting the job like he did. And well, Maybe he's just developed an attachment to Ethan, wants the poor sod to know that not everything is really his fault. Well, and maybe Ethan needs someone to just be nice to him. Fuck. 

The second he walks into the apartment he pretty much dumped his rifle and flopped himself on the worn couch while Ethan made the call, rubbing at his face and groaning. Yeah, he needed the rest, defiantly needed it. It was a good call to head back for the day.

Hearing the door creak back open, Mick sat up and twisted himself over the back of the couch to try and peer in. "E? You still doing alright? Need anything?" Dumb question, probably. But it doesn't hurt, he hasn't seen Ethan like this yet. Concern for his friend outweighs his need for a nap now.

"Fine." He does not sound fine. Not at all. His tone is flat and two-dimensional, rage clear and brimming inside him. But it falters, it breaks, and shortly after he's just...sad. Horrifically sad, and he doesn't know why. "When the pizza gets here, let me know, alright?" He moves out of the doorway and out of sight, and as soon as he's alone he's sitting against the wall, staring blankly out in front of himself before he draws his knees up towards his chest and just...stays there.

He doesn't realize he's crying until a few moments later, but he wipes it away with the back of his hand, or at least as best as he can to hold it back. He doesn't know what's wrong. Nothing should be wrong. He's a fucking hitman. He can deal with this. He's just being irrational. Just being irrational. Irrational. Irrational.

 

_Ethan, I still lo-_

**Bang. Bang.**

 

"Bang." He raises a hand, forming a gun with his fingers, and pops his thumb down in the universal sign for shooting. It drops. Gunfire. Pain. Pain through his chest, blood. Lots of blood. A hole, neatly popped through him. Tie a string through it or he'll fly away. Away, away, and never come back.

 

_Please don't. Please don't, oh God. Please._

_Shut up, bitch. You know you want it._

**_PLEASE, NO! NO!_ **

 

"Fuck." Now he can't stop it. There are tears.

Well fuck. 

Yeah, he didn't sound fine. Mick sat there, debating on wither or not he should do something. And then he realized, either he could help his friend, or have Ethan yell at him. And well, he rather find out he could have done something than let Ethan mess himself up somehow.

 Rolling from the couch, cursing how stiff his legs were, Mick made his way to the door and lightly pushed it open, walking in only to see Ethan against the wall. He can't help it, this guy was really his only friend. And seeing him fucked up hurt him. 

Without saying a word, Mick went to the wall and slid down beside Ethan. If he wanted to be alone, he could tell him, but for now, Mick's just going to be there. He'll let Ethan deal with it on his own, he found that generally that's what usually works with some people. He's dabbled a bit in psychology, something that's a need to know for criminology and he can't help but what to see what's going on in the other man's head. Ethan can tell him or not, but for now, Mick isn't leaving him alone with it.

Mick's presence makes him jump at first, but he calms himself and just draws his knees a bit closer. He's borderline to shaking, that much is clear, and he's lost in...whatever train of thought he's tumbled into. 

 

_Ethan, I had a miscarriage._

**_You were...you were pregnant? You were pregnant and you didn't tell me?_ **

_It's because of what you did._

 

His hands clench into fists and he rests his forehead against his knees, teeth grinding together momentarily as he tries to clear his head.

 

Clear. Clear as a blue sky, with cold wind, streamers in the air. Some kind of festival.

Not streamers. Not floating. Hanging.

Intestines hanging from a corpse nailed to the ceiling.

Dad.

**_DAD!_ **

Ethan sobs once, but he's restraining himself as best as he can.

"You poor sod," it's about all Mick can say to the mess beside him. He feels terrible for him, He has no idea what's going on in his head but he's smart enough to know it's something bad. He sits crosslegged next to him, content to just be a presence and let the man figure it out. He has no idea what Ethan's been through minus what little he's told him. 

"You wanna talk about it?" Stupid question. He probably can guess the answer. Doesn't hurt to ask. "Just usually, with these kind of things, talking 'elps. If you don't want to, I understand."

"You don't want to know." Ethan's voice is quiet despite his state, dangerously so. "Everybody who know just pities me and treats me like some kid on one of those fucking...those commercials. Or like a dog on those ASPCA ones. And I get the same looks every time, and I'm...I..." He swallows and keeps his head down.

 

_Put him back on IV. He doesn't deserve to eat._

 

_Run it again. The more times you stumble, the more you rep it._

**_I can't help it! It's a limp! It hurts! I'm trying, I'm sorry!_ **

_Shut the fuck up and do it._

 

_How does it feel, knowing you're helpless?_

**_He...he keeps doing it every night. Please help me. I won't ever complain again._ **

_Doing WHAT? I've seen the cameras. I've seen nothing._

**_Please, I'm...I'm begging you. I'll do anything._ **

_Fine. Then get on your knees._

 

**_You said you'd help me!_ **

_I did. The tapes are gone. Just mine to keep, now._

 

"Mick, I..." His voice cracks, and he finally looks up, eyes brimming and posture utterly defeated.

He listens, realizing that Ethan's been through deep shit. He sympathizes, but he doesn't pity him. Hell, Mick's been defeated before, maybe not in the same way, in in a way that he knows what Ethan's feeling right now. That sort of stuff, it never goes away. War, therapy, being happy for probably five minutes before losing everything in misplaced trust and being on the wrong side of a gun.

"Come on," he gently pulls Ethan over, not caring if the man wants to fight him. Mick's not the hugging sort, hell, he has certain problems with touch still, hugging being one of them. But God, he can't let Ethan suffer that alone. "S'aright mate. Just relax, eh? Promise I wont pity you or anythin' like that. You don't 'ave to tell me. Just relax."

Ethan lives a life very devoid of touch. There's sexual lust, of course, and what comes with that, but it's not the same as other types of intimacy. He can't remember the last time he was hugged. He falls into it in silence, eyes closing for a moment. Mick seems to have managed to stop him before he got violent, broke something, or turned abusive in words. That takes skill. He just stays against Mick in that same heavy void of noise for a moment longer before he speaks again.

"I'm sorry. I'm damaged goods. You deserve better than me." He means it, from his tone. "Mick, I've...been exposed to a lot of bad things. A lot of bad people. Bad people. Really, really bad people."

To him, it defines his worth.

"I've done things...seen things done...had things done to me, and I...I'm sorry."

"I know," he sighs, resting against Ethan like it's something they've always done and not just someone he's met two days ago. "That doesn't necessarily make you bad, E. S'lot of things that a person can go through and it's not their fault. Maybe some of it was. I dunno. But you're not worthless mate. And you don't 'ave to apologize to me. I don't know what you went through but just because you're a little damaged doesn't mean there's not anythin' left."

Mick's speaking from experience, he knows how Ethan's feeling. He's been depressed, suffered through tragedy, all of it. Maybe not on the scale of Ethan's pain, but he knows it. Feels it. 

"At least to me. That's gotta count for somethin', eh?"

 

"Thanks." It's quiet but sincere. Nobody's ever been this kind to him, well and truly. It makes him ache somehow, deep inside. Ache in a way he can't quite explain, like he's had a wound left on him he never thought he'd feel, not now and not ever. It's deep, it's sore, and it's raw. He's ok with trusting Mick to this extent, which to him is more or less showing his throat. That is a very big mark of just how much he trusts the Welshman next to him. It isn't a passing thing or a thing of convenience at this point- if Mick's willing to support him and stop this episode from escalating to its full extent even though he doesn't know he's done so, then he's stepped up to fill a role in Ethan's life nobody else has, even if only for a little while.

Eventually, Ethan shifts and sits up again, doing a bit better. Somewhat embarrassed, he swallows dryly and is about to speak when the doorbell rings. Pizza's here.

"I’ll get that," Mick offers, pushing himself up against the way and groaning at how stiff his legs are, and stretched for a second before looking down at Ethan. He watches for a minute, making completely sure he'll be alright and gently walks out the door. 

He takes a year or two to fish out his wallet, sorting through his junk on the couch and frowning when he finally saw just how much money he actually had. Yeah, wow, he needed something to pay out at some point. Too many dead jobs lately. Sooner or later, he'd need to find something better than what he's been taking.

Paying and awkwardly rushing the delivery guy away, he grumbled about the lack of clean dishes before grabbing tupperware tops and returning to the room, bending low to drop it on the floor, turning to sit opposite of Ethan. "Food, yeah? Get's everyone's mind off everythin', I've found." 

"Yeah. Thanks." Ethan grabs one of the tupperware lids and reaches for a slice, settling back to eat in silence for a moment before he speaks up a little bit after a few bites. "I, uh...I understand if you're pretty much done with me at this point, after knowing I'm not...always as rational as I need to be in this job. It's why I"m such a dangerous partner, and that's exactly why nobody takes me on as one. I'm...well...I guess, I...I think I might have PTSD." He gets it out with a quiet exhale. "I'm too afraid to get help because...well, I mean...think about it. Word gets back to the...ah, damn. There's so much you don't know. And that's a blessing, but..." He pauses, inhaling deeply and taking another bite.  
"If...I tell you, will you promise not to leave just because of that?"

Mick shrugged. "We've done well enough so far. Why would I quit now? You're my partner, mate. Also you've become my friend," he frowned, picking at a piece of pineapple and then he cleared his throat. "I don't 'ave a lot of friends, either here or in Wales. All I've got is Jenna. And you. Whatever you tell me, I can handle well enough. I wont leave because of something you did or had 'appen to you in your past. Like I told you before," he finally took a bite. "I trust you."

He's serious. Dead serious. He waits patiently for Ethan to tell him what he's wanting to tell. No pressure, none of Mick having a fit over it. Just lets Ethan take his time. 

"I...wow. Thanks, bro." Ethan finishes his slice and reaches for another, although he speaks before he eats. "My dad was in the same profession. Family business and all. Way back, WAY back. My mom died when I was a kid. He raised me. He got married to someone else, and that's where my brother came from. All blond hair and blue eyes and square jaw, you know? And then there's me. I'm older, but I'm none of that. And so growing up in Hamburg meant that I got looks and jokes he didn't." Hamburg. So he's German- the surname could easily have just been a remnant of an immigrant family, but he admits to the contrary.

"My stepmom left my dad. She and my brother moved to the States. I stayed with him. I was just the bastard son, after all. But he loved me in his own way, and it was fine. When I was a bit older, I...found him. Dead." Details are left out, but from the look on his face it wasn't of natural causes. "So I was alone. I left for the states, took on the career that killed him. I learned my stepmom was dead and my brother was in the business, too. I offered to help him on his first job, which he royally fucked up. He cried like a baby, too, and swore it off to me that same night. I pushed him out of my life, continued on. Eventually, I got shot by the Feds. I woke up on this cold table on my stomach and I just kept coming to, and a month passed before they let me stand up, and I learned what they'd done, and..."

He listens, not bothering to eat as Ethan goes on. Well yeah, now it all makes sense. Mick could somewhat relate, he's lost both his parents too. Most defiantly not in the same way but still in the sense that it allows him to connect to Ethan with that. 

And family in the business, Mick couldn't imagine it. There were times he was jealous of his sister, the fact she lived easy and fancy in London and was never poked at for her accent because she's pretty; Hell it was that sort of sibling jealousy. But never, never would he want her exposed to this. Even when he was in criminology, never. It took a special kind of person to get up every day with murder on their minds. 

"I can see 'ow that can fuck someone up," he said softly. "To just wake up and find out what they'd done to you? 'Ad to be Hell."

"It hurt. I remember how much it hurt. I know I flipped out but they got me drugged and back down pretty quickly. I tried killing myself shortly after that but to discourage me from drying again they had me on pretty tight guard while I was recovering before I could start therapy and training. I, ah...during that time, one of the guards...well, simply put? I was forced. Several times. And the only guy on the whole fucking face of the planet who could help me didn't because of a petty grudge and the apparent need for his own personal smut tapes. I grew pretty bitter after that point."

He takes a bite, silent and thoughtful. 

"My brother...well, he...he threatened my life, and I had to...kill him. It was him or me. Sometimes I still think about it."

"How can you not? Something like that, something so traumatic and something that hurt so much like that? You can repress it and 'ide it away all you want, but it always stays with you. Even years later, There's just some things you never really get over."

Mick frowned, appetite lost, not by Ethan's fault but by his own thinking. He just slid what was left in the box and sighed. "That must 'ave been 'ard to talk about. Thank you for telling me. It...makes things easier."

"Thanks for taking me seriously. I mean that. Most people I tell bits of this stuff to don't. The jokes start coming, or maybe they get edgy around me. I had this one girl get some of it out of me once and she turned right around and just told me I couldn't have been...yeah. 'Cause men can't, which is bullshit. I know it is. But it still hurt." He's not using the word. It's obvious that by avoiding that he pads the trauma, even if just a little bit.  
"So I stopped talking. It's been a long time. I didn't even tell my lover. He found most of it on his...own." Close enough.

"You're welcome. You deserve it."

Mick sits in silence for a while, absorbing what Ethan's told him. He doesn't think any less of the man, just understands more clearly his baggage and what's going on with him. Also, a lover. He did mention he was polyamourus. Mick should probably keep a mental note of that, in case his partner found out about their deal and, well, isn't so open to sharing. 

"Well," he shifted, trying to keep himself from going too stiff. "Just know that if you need someone I'm 'ere. I might be a shitty therapist but I make do. Huh," he snorted, "shoulda done that instead of criminology. Would 'ave gone better. Anyway," he coughed, getting himself back on track. "Yeah, mate. It's a safe room with me."

"I really can't express how much that means to me, bro. Like...nobody ever gives me that chance. You've given me more than almost everybody else I've had extended dealings with in my LIFE. I can't...I can't explain it. You're important to me, ok?" It's not very eloquent, but he means it. His smile is sincere as he takes another bite. 

"And thanks for not shoving me off the roof earlier. Some would have." It's a small thing to be grateful for, but he is. Although that one? That seems like more of a joke. Hopefully.

He laughed, coughing again before finally clearing his throat. "Can't 'elp you're a good kisser mate. If it makes you feel any better, you're the first one since Jon. Kinda helped with some clarity. Felt good."

He very much means that. Mick doesn't let himself get close to anyone, been too long and he's hardened to friendship and relationships, but for some reason he's enjoyed Ethan. He's worked with others since his split from the Red Cell, but nothing like the man next to him, and never has he enjoyed it as much. Strange, really. 

"I just see somethin' in what we got. Maybe it's ridiculous but it seems to work. I see somethin' in you, y'know. Can't say that for a lotta people these days."

"If you think I'm a good kisser, you should see how good I am in bed." He's not joking, but his tone is light. "If you ever want to, that is. The offer's there. I don't know how you like to play things like that. Like...details. You know what I mean. I'm flexible. I don't know about you. My point is..." He gives a little wink and scratches at his jawline before finishing his second of likely three slices.  
"I like you. A lot. And I don't want to scare you off. So if you ever want me to back off a bit or cool it down, just...let me know. Because I value this...us...too much to be the reason it's done."  
Getting philosophical over pizza on the floor of an apartment. That seems about right.

"Thank you. Not a lot of people give me that option or set that boundary with me," he paused. "I'm still a little uncomfortable. Not with you but just with...everything in general," he shifted, taking a few moments to think before speaking again. "I loved Jon. It took months before I even found out what 'appened to him. It's made things raw for me. I don't mind the joking but...y'know, I just can't see myself with anyone but 'em. But that's not a no."

He smirked. "It's been a long time already. I think I should figure out 'ow to let go. And I don't scare easy, so I doubt that's gonna be a problem for us. Like I said before, just don't betray my trust. And I can see that it probably wont be a problem either.

"If you can 'andle the awkwardness, we can make it work."

"Hey, I completely understand. I'm not asking you if you want to make some commitment to me. I'm just saying, I'm here as what I can be for you, whatever that means.  And if that means nothing because of...anything, anything at all? I'm cool with that. I don't want to blow this chance, you know?" He's surprisingly rational about it, but given that he's poly he probably has to juggle things like this all the time to keep people from getting angry. It's a safe bet he's had lovers get possessive in the past, and there's no doubt it's caused him trouble.

"Awkward? Like anything can get more awkward than me being present at all? Hah, you're funny." Ethan lightly punches Mick in the arm. A break back to more serious matters, though, and he speaks up about it.

"After tonight, whatever we make of the hours we've got left, it's time to take Torres down. You ready for that?"

"Thank you. And yeah, I think I'm ready. Whatever plan you've got I'm behind you, E. "

He means it. It felt good, being able to put so much trust into someone. 

"Would be lying if I said it didn't make me nervous as fuck. But what doesn't these days, eh?" Yeah, nervous. Just a little nervous. Wasn't like they were going to fuck up. Ethan was good at what he did, Mick was sharp enough that if shit did go down he could figure something out. Either way, h shoved those thoughts aside, now wasn't the time to build up panic, and knowing him he'd find some way to knock himself off his game. "Right. Nah. I'm ready, specially when it comes to seeing that wanker drop."

"I'm nervous too. Nervous is good. Nervous means you're ready, and you're not confident enough to just wing it. That's solid, means you have a real chance, you know?" He grins and sets down the tupperware lid Mick so graciously gave him before pausing, glancing to the sniper, and abruptly leaning over to give him a tiny little (pizza breath) kiss on the jaw before he pulls away and stands, taking the lid with him. 

"I'm going to get ready for bed. Thanks, bro. For everything."

He didn't expect the kiss, but it was a sweet gesture, and he smirked, looking up at Ethan and tilting his head. 

"Anytime, E," he replied, finally standing up and sighing. He was happy, which for him, was an emotion he barely felt anymore. Never had time for it, he thought. Maybe this was what he needed. Just someone he could count on and relate to and care for again. It felt reinvigorating.

They had a big day tomorrow, Mick reminded himself. He'd probably take a few hours to fall asleep again but it seemed like Ethan didn't mind his tossing. That was a first also, any time he'd had to bunk with someone that ended up being the main complaint. Either way, he'd be ready. Honestly he couldn't wait for it to be over and for him to be back to small time jobs. It was just what he was used to.

Ethan brushes his teeth and changes to just boxers, sliding into bed neatly and with no issue, on the same side as usual. He's a creature of habit, after all. It's just what makes him so good at his job.

Ethan is happy in bed despite Mick's tossing and turning. He's made it clear that he does best flat on his back, but tonight he can sense Mick being even more ill-at-ease than normal. He does something probably unexpected, though, but he won't mind if pushed away, even harshly. When given the chance, he moves in to rest against Mick, eventually turning on his side to cuddle up against the man in whatever direction he may be laying.

Ok then.

Sleep for once came easier for him. Maybe because for once he was just so at peace he could relax, and that maybe getting everything out in the air seemed to clear his head. It's a welcome sensation, like he knows he's at least safe for the next few hours.

Could bring comfort to anyone. 

The second he feels a weight on him he stiffens up, but once he processes that it's Ethan he deflates, relaxing and letting Ethan rest against him. The comfort is something he needs and soon he's softly snoring, completely content and forgetting about what's going to happen in the next few hours for a little bit. He couldn't remember the last time he was so relaxed, probably had been years. It felt so good that for once RLS was barely a problem. Yeah, Mick could get used to this.

The phone alarm wakes Ethan, who groans and rolls over to turn it off. He doesn't want to get out of bed, but it's time to move. Sore from the position he chose to fall asleep in but not at all regretting the choice. He swings out of bed and stretches with several loud and hollow pops before he decides he's done it well enough. Time to get dressed. The dead man's clothes aren't going to fit him, and he knows that. He settles on his own pants and contemplates not bothering with a shirt at all. Normally that wouldn't be a problem, but he realizes that next to Mick it would make him seem even more off-color. He'd better not attract extra attention like that.

Soon enough, water is running in the bathroom. Wakey wakey, Mick.

"Thanks." It's quiet but since

re. Nobody's ever been this kind to him, well and truly. It makes him ache somehow, deep inside. Ache in a way he can't quite explain, like he's had a wound left on him he never thought he'd feel, not now and not ever. It's deep, it's sore, and it's raw. He's ok with trusting Mick to this extent, which to him is more or less showing his throat. That is a very big mark of just how much he trusts the Welshman next to him. It isn't a passing thing or a thing of convenience at this point- if Mick's willing to support him and stop this episode from escalating to its full extent even though he doesn't know he's done so, then he's stepped up to fill a role in Ethan's life nobody else has, even if only for a little while.

Eventually, Ethan shifts and sits up again, doing a bit better. Somewhat embarrassed, he swallows dryly and is about to speak when the doorbell rings. Pizza's here.


	6. Chapter 6

He didn't want to get up.

He groaned when he snapped awake to Ethan's alarm, shoving his face in the pillow before forcing himself to roll...Promptly landing him face down in the carpet. Fantastic way to start the day. Just brilliant. God star.

Using the bed to get him on his feet, the Welshman grumbled to himself, surprisingly not incredibly tired but still enough that proactivness and being awake sounds like the most annoying and horrible things to be right now. But they had their job to do today.

Ignoring the way his headache screamed for nicotine, Mick scratched at the scruff on his face before shuffling over to the bathroom to splash water on his face. He's planning on skipping coffee, something he normally wouldn't be able to do without but a good night's sleep gives him extra confidence.

Sighing, he made his way back to the living room, digging through his duffle bags and pulling out a change of clothes. He'll wait until Ethan's done, a quick shower will completely wake him and after that he'll be ready to get. He's busy keeping his mind on other things, rehearsing in his head something incredibly important he needs to remember to ask Ethan before they leave for the final act. All it does is make him more nervous about something else.

The water turns off and Ethan exits...sans clothing. His lean and honed physique is striking in just how different it is, and it suits him very well. It's perfectly natural, nothing overdone or overworked. He looks like he could take on the world, like he let his body become what it wanted to so it could be useful for him. If it weren't for the faint heaviness to his movements and the scars, he'd seem...well, flawless. The utter pinnacle of perfection a human can reach with their form. The tattoos suit him well, and it's clear he's got zero shame. He wanders to his clothes, which he left in a somewhat messy pile.

"Bathroom's yours." And so am I if you want me. He slips on his boxers and then gets dressed with a few quick hops here and there. He steals a pair of socks from a dresser drawer and slides his shoes on as well.

Mick can't help but look (can you blame him?). At least he has something to appreciate, Ethan's lucky, Mick doesn't usually pay attention to male physique but Ethan's impressed him. Not a lot of men can say that, Prophet, if he were still alive, in particular. But he makes a mental note of what he's seen. Good memory is sometimes a very good thing.

His shower is done in cold water to wake him up and it just serves for him to keep his long hair slicked back and out of his way. At some point, he'd have to cut it, as much as he liked it long it just seemed to get in the way. Maybe he'd snip it for the wedding.

The wedding. Shit.

"Hey, E," he calls out once he finally finishes and dresses himself in the bathroom, throwing his towel in the sink as he rejoined the other man. "Before we go I just gotta ask you somethin'. You remember that phone call I made yesterday? Was checking in on my sister, girl's getting married and well, she's managed to convince her assho- her ah, her fiancé, to 'ave the wedding in Cardiff so our Nan will go. Basically, I'm ah, I'm askin' if you wanna go with me. To Wales. I...my sister is important to me but I 'aven't been home in several years and just don't wanna be alone, y'know? I mean, s'alright if you don't. I just need to know."

"...Oh my God. Did you just ask me to be your date to the wedding? Of your SISTER? BRO! I fucking LOVE weddings!" Ethan seems ecstatic, and perhaps even a bit beyond that. "Uh...one problem, though. No matter how much tailoring is done, I look horrible in a suit. Seriously, horrible. You're going to have to help me find an alternative or something." He's clearly in the know about that situation from the fact he so blatantly brings it up. At least he knows in advance and is kind enough to warn of what's apparently a very big issue.

"I'd love to go. I'm honored you asked." He seems to be overflowing with excitement now, and it's clear as day that it really did more than just make his morning. It probably made his week, if the rooftop didn't do that already.

"When do we leave?" While asking the question, he's in motion and packing his pockets with everything he needs- his scope, his phone, his headphones, a push knife, an utility knife, zip ties, and gloves.

Don't worry, it's small so I'm sure she wont mind anyway about the suit. And...and I'm glad. Really. My family isn't...It's just my sister and my grandmother now, y'know? So it really means a lot to me mate."

That felt good. For some reason he was worried Ethan would say now. Jenna will be happy, at least. If Ethan didn't go with him, he was sure he'd end up telling her no. At least now he could attack it with a calm head.

"We can go now, get it over with. This job it's stressin' me out. I want to see Torres taken down," Mick fumbled around for his rifle, sliding the straps around his shoulders before breathing out slowly in an attempt to calm himself. "You ready? S'no going back now."

"I understand. Small family for me, too. Smaller now. Company's good. I'm glad you're going to invite me to be part of yours for a little while." The words aren't just stated out of some sense of duty, and if he didn't want to go? Well, Mick could easily guess Ethan wouldn't sugarcoat his words just because he wanted to protect his partner's ego or feelings. He's blunt and brutally so.

"Yeah. Good to go. So first thing is first- we get him alone, somehow. Best way to do that will be the office. It's kind of lofted, almost three stories up in that warehouse. I convince him we've got private business, and the cash as well. We go up? We take care of it. I called Payne while you were asleep. The cash is waiting in a drop for us in a place nobody but me would go, more or less. We get that, we go in, we take him out. We let the Feds sort out the mess. Payne calls them in either immediately when I call or text, or two hours later if everything goes wrong."  
Ethan knows the threat they face is huge, and he's well aware they're in danger because of it. He's asking Mick to take a huge leap with him, but the man's training is very different from his own. Will he take it?

"Alright. Yeah. Let's do this."

For some reason, he's got high confidence in Ethan and what they're about to do. His nervousness is nothing compared to how ready he is for this job. It seems like Mick's putting all his faith in Ethan here, hoping that none of it goes belly up. But he's ready and alert, and with a snif he's headed for the door. He has any chance now to walk away but the though of abandoning their mission is shoved away. He's ready.

He holds the door open for Ethan and waits for him to lead the way. Still, that nagging feeling that something bad is about to happen still hasn't gone away.

"Great." Krieg grins and extends his hand for a fist bump before he opens the door and heads out to make their way there. "For the sake of speed I figured we'd take a car for once. Get a ride, that is. If I show up driving they'll know something's up, especially if it's not the right type for a gangbanger to have. So we get a lift a half mile out, get dropped. Sound solid?" If Mick has argument, he isn't really going to listen. The taxi is waiting warmly curbside, and the driver is resting there on an obviously huge tip promise if he hasn't left yet. Just how much did Ethan prepare before Mick woke up?

The ride is uneventful, but the half-mile stop suddenl ymakes sense when Ethan uses his parkour skills to ascend a building to its roof via window overhangs and jutting architectural design, finding a messenger back loaded with the cash to sling over his shoulder and get down. Most of the fall is made by simply letting go, his landing smooth and impossibly catlike. He grins, proud of himself, and is up again shortly after.

Even as they approach to walk into the lion's den Ethan does not buckle, show fear, or even faint concern. He grins towards a guard and pushes him in the shoulder playfully, getting a little snap back but no real lip. He's respected around here now, and they know they can't rough him up unless ordered to do so.

Inside, Ethan approaches one of Torres' lieutenants with a big grin on his face. "Got the cash. Got the man. Can I see Torres, bro?"

"Sure. He's up in his office. On some phone call." The man gestures to the stairs.

"Thanks, bro." Ethan slaps him lightly on the shoulder and ascends, figuring Mick will follow suit.  
"S'fine by me. You're the boss 'ere."

He admired how much effort and work Ethan's put into this. He's a man of many mysteries but h's obviously smart as all Hell. The amount of time he's put into this makes Mick respect him more. Not like Ethan's had to fight for his respect anyway.

Oh. Stairs. Great for the knees.

He follows Ethan up, somewhat slowed by his fear but he soon gets over it each step they climb. The time is now, and Mick's beyond ready. If they need it, he has his forty five, which gives him some comfort that he's got some way to defend himself against guys that have to be ten times his size. But his confidence is solid and he's expecting no room for failure.

He keeps himself close behind Ethan, even once they reach the office, almost as if he's protecting himself. Staying close keeps him focused, and if anything they'll be able to fight better if Mick can cover Ethan's back if shit goes down. It's almost tine, bring it on.  
Ethan opens the door and steps in to find Torres and two enforcers...but the odd thing is that Torres has them stationed on either side of his desk, one by the door and the other near the other side's wall, while Torres himself has his back turned and is reading something on his phone. Two chairs are resting side by side, spaced out before the desk. A table has a briefcase on it, scalpels, pliers, a cattle prod, and knives. Ethan senses the danger immediately and tries to shove Mick back to give him a chance to get away, panic flaring through him in that instant. It doesn't accomplish anything, though, as someone else has come up the stairs behind them and wrenches one of Micks' wrists up behind his back, even more painful to his elbow and shoulder because of the weapon on his back. He's shoved into Ethan, and while he doesn't weigh enough to throw the hitman off his feet entirely he stumbles in and the door closes behind them, locking.

"I don't take kindly to traitors, bro." Torres turns, gaze darkening. The man holding Mick's arm wrenches him towards one of the chairs, and Ethan is approached by the two men, who both rightfully expect a fight. As he tries to at least get a few blows in, a taser is fired into his neck. He freezes involuntarily and goes down after a few seconds, cybernetics spazzing as his rewired nervous system jolts. When he's down on his knees, one of Torres' men smacks a knee into his jaw and sends him flat.  
Oh fuck.

"Shit!" Mick can't hold back his cry of pain when his arm is pulled back; he's not strong enough to fight it and struggling would just earn him more pain in the end. Problem was his rifle was also in his way, and it was probably just too much hope to think they'd remove the weapon to lessen his strain. Why would they? The room was far too closed in and he wouldn't have a chance of assembling it fast enough just to shoot point blank if he broke free. And it's hurt him more than help.

He nearly crumbles against the chair, arm and wrist in severe pain already, and judging from Torres' toys there, he's going to be in much worse if they can't bust themselves out of there. His pain tolerance may be rather high when it comes to torture, but Mick can't keep it up forever. But the second he sees them shock Ethan and collapse, the chances that he might not make it out seemed to be a lot higher, especially if they knew how to tamper with Ethan's cybernetics.

Ethan, shit. He was nearly seconds away from screaming it, seeing Ethan laying there does nothing but make him furious, and he contemplates trying to fight, as stupid at that would be.

He wasn't strong enough. They'd tear him apart.  
Ethan doesn't so much as fight a bit when he's yanked up to be dumped in the chair. From there, his hands, forearms, and ankles are restrained. He's conscious but having trouble focusing his mind, like a fog has taken it over. He's not in shooting agony, though, just somewhat slowed down. He's extremely vulnerable to people who know how to get him this way. He was even more so when that port was still in his arm.

Mick's weapon is forcibly removed from his back with little care as he's strapped down, and Ethan can't help him, and couldn't even if he wanted to. Torres watches it all with a kind of cool excitement, slipping on gloves as he does so. He's not wearing fancy clothes, and it's clear he just doesn't want blood on his hands and doesn't care what happens to the rest of what he's got on.  
"We're going to have some fun. It just depends on who's first."  
Removing a rifle from a sniper felt like Mick was stripped down to his skin; he was bare, vulnerable, like muscle exposed. The naked sensation isn't something he likes, very rarely is he this vulnerable. Brown eyes glance over to where Ethan's slumped, hoping that nothing was severely wrong with him.

Weird, even after this he's still so concerned and protective over him.

If he could focus Torres' attention on him, there was a chance Ethan could alert himself in time, right? Or maybe not. Fuck, Mick knew nothing about cybernetics or anything of the sort. Shit. There goes any plan he might have. He's not even close to being strong enough to work the binding slapped on him, and he doesn't even carry a pocket knife. Note to self if you live: buy a pocket knife.

"You could skip the bloody nonsense and just fucking pick one, y'know," there you go. Attempt to piss him off. No way that'll backfire. Then again, does Mick even really care? At least if Torres kills him it'll make his life a lot easier. So much for the wedding. Wont his sister be disappointed. Shame if he hadn't already ordered the plate. Blah Blah Blah.  
"Ethan it is." Mick, you dumb shit. Torres strides forward, grabbing the cattle prod, and he buzzes it once to test it. "Wake up, Krieg." The weapon is shoved into his thigh, making him jolt with a gasp. Oh, he's alert now. It seems Torres knows how to push all his buttons. His are dimmer, somewhat, likely caused by the electric jolts. The LEDs are not highest priority while his systems reboot themselves. He doesn't get a chance to say anything, though, because the prod is back again, making his throat restrict and heart skip a beat. His hands clench into fists and he gives a futile try to get away. When it's over, he lets out a gasp and breathes deeply, throat raw and sore. He looks like someone who just ran a mile, not someone who's seated in a chair. This could get bad, and fast.  
The first he hears Ethan gasp Mick's entire body stiffens. And the second time he touches him Mick begins to struggle, mostly because the turn on Ethan's his fault. He certainly had a track record for turning things the wrong way, didn't he? But he's pissed, which for someone who's general attitude was apathy, was something he rarely let show. He doesn't care if struggling against the restraints puts more pressure on his injured wrist, seeing Ethan get attacked like that just makes him rage.

"Fucking shit!" that's the best he can get out? Probably. He's too angry to think of something clever. All he knows is that really can't do anything about this. Why didn't he talk Ethan out of it? But seeing his partner like that? Yeah, no. But really, what can he do but make a disturbance and be a minor inconvenience.  
Really helpful, Mick. Really helpful. Torres goes for a scalpel now, prod still in one hand. He turns to ethan again, moving in towards his face. The hitman panics, and for obvious reason. Scars to the face can destroy a man. Missing vision even more so. He expects the worst, and he bites his cheek to hold in his sigh of relief when it drops from his face. He doubts it was just a threat display, and he was right. The blade is abruptly yanked across his arm, and the smarting initial pain is just cool and cold. It takes a moment to strike him that there's a fairly shallow but long incision in his arm, and as the rush of pain flares his mouth opens in silent shock. The second one is slow, drawing back the other direction just above the other wound.

"FUCK!" He can't hold it in, and the pain is horrific. His speaking gets another jab of the prod, which makes him jerk, causing the wound to end up deeper in one point, more blood pooling. Talk about mixed signals, which is exactly the point.

Ethan's got a push knife in a pocket, and they haven't searched him yet.  
Realizing he's not going to force Torres' hand now Mick looks away, cringing when he hears Ethan shout. His nails are digging into the rest of the chair and his teeth are deep in his cheeks to keep himself from showing just how much all this bothered him, especially not being able to do a damn thing as Torres cuts into his friend. Now he's just patiently waiting his turn, wondering if it's so bad that he's kind of hoping he doesn't end up walking away. At least putting back up his wall can maybe keep it from getting worse, right? Another, quieter part was hoping Ethan had some kind of plan.  
Torres isn't going to let up. Ethan's fairly good at holding back any breakdowns, but eventually it gets to a point he can't stop the scream when fingers are broken, one by one, by heavy blows from the back of a heavy mallet. All but his thumb and index finger on the right hand are broken, and at this point his arm is covered in an array of cuts, all of which were cauterized to prevent any excessive bleeding. Cauterized in a very, very uncomfortable way, but not enough to leave a lasting scar. The smell, though, was horrible. His shirt was cut away shortly after, an array of small, teasing cuts traced across his torso just for the hell of it, and to watch him squirm.

When Torres moves to the index finger, he braces himself and involuntarily groans in pain, eyes screwed shut and heartbeat erratic. Torres stops, a little smirk on his face. Apparently that's what he was waiting to hear- it's just shy of begging, after all.

Ethan's restraints are loosened and he's released, tossed onto the floor on his stomach like trash. A foot slams down between his shoulderblades, knocking the wind out of him. A few more like that and ribs could break. He's flipped over, and he instinctively raises his uninjured hand to protect his face and throat. No blows come, though, but Torres laughs. From the desk, a hammer and a nail are brought down.

Ethan knows what's about to happen, and as the nail is positioned on one of his ribs, he finally pleads for an end. Of course, it isn't going to come. The hammer goes down and strikes the nail's head. His rib breaks. He screams in pain as it flares through his torso, instinctively trying to curl up and get away. Torres' position straddling him with a knee on one leg keeps that from happening. He moves the nail to the second rib. Crack. A broken cry of pain. Third rib. Crack.

On the floor is a glint.   
The push knife. Whether Ethan meant it to fall free or not, it's on the ground now, and as he struggles to try and end his pain...or maybe fake it so he can accomplish his goal...he slides it towards Mick as best as he can.  
Mick cringes again, shutting his eyes and trying to block out the sound of bones crunching before opening his eyes again to see an object on the floor in front of him, stretching out his feet to toe the knife until he could reach it before scooting it to the right position. He felt his chair wobble under him and if he landed this right...

Thankfully, Torres is distracted and if Mick makes it look like he's just struggling maybe they'll pay him no mind. Rocking back and forth on his chair, he crashed to the floor, adjusting himself so that he could grab the push knife and cut at his restraints, trying his best to act quickly before anyone could see him. The problem was dealing with Torres' men later, but he can only think so far ahead. He's quiet, but he's running on adrenaline and the second he cuts himself free, he lunges, push knife right in his hand. He has a choice, he could throw it, with would probably still get him his desired results. He was a sniper, of course, so his accuracy would be on point. But this felt too personal to just attempt something he could fuck up. Either way, he'd have weapons once he took out Torres.

He moves faster than he has in years and aims right for the spot he normally looks for down his scope, right at the top of the vertebrae. if Torres noticed him it could buy Ethan some time to recuperate if the man decided to fight him. The knife was just long enough that stabbing him in the neck would either paralyze him from severing the nerves, or kill him if it's angled just right. But them Mick makes a quick adjustment, and grabs for Torres' neck instead, aiming to jab right into the jugular.

His entire mind shuts down for a moment, he had no idea if he's done it or not. All he knows is that his knife went somewhere.  
As Mick moves, a fourth rib is cracked. Ethan can't help it now. His throat is dry and tears well in his eyes, and there's not a damn thing he can do about it. He feels helpless, degraded, and worthless. Mick is his only chance. He knows Torres will eventually kill him, but it will take several days of suffering first. There's always a few more bones to break, fingers and toes to amputate with bolt cutters, eventually limbs to saw off. He knows how the man operates- he's seen it. Given his cybernetics, though, it will hurt even more. He knows this and it scares him. If the cybernetics are ripped out he will die, period. So the bones, though? The bones can be extracted. The thought makes him chokingly sob, something he regrets instantly as broken ribs scream at him for just the act of breathing.

Mick's fall gets a smirk from the guards, who mutter in Spanish about it. Nobody notices him cut free. The knife hits home, and Torres chokes in shock. It takes everyone a moment to realize what has happened. The spurt of blood in time with the pulse will only erupt completely when the knife is removed. One guard raises a gun and fires, but it strikes Torres' shoulder and embeds there. Move fast, Mick.  
Mick grabs his bullet shield and yanks the knife free, the kill something that makes his blood pump faster in his ears. He can't hear a damn thing, not even the choking sounds Torres is making in his arms or the second shot fired into the meat. With a quick pat down he looks for a handgun, no way a gang leader wouldn't be fully armed even with his own men around and he finally finds what he's looking for. His aim was powerful with short range weapons and he shoots, knocking at least six or seven rounds into both of them together, feeling his entire body now click in tune with how fast he was wanting to move. He still had a few rounds left, if he works fast he probably wont have to use them.

Mick is nothing but rage and it takes him a minute to remember where he is. Torres' men would have heard the shots, his choice was to probably run out and avoid gunfire, and somehow steal a vehicle and dump it far enough away and hide out until it all calms down. Until he remembers Ethan as well.

"Shit, E, you alive man?" stupid question. He's going to be in a lot of pain, and Mick didn't know if he could carry him himself, even with the adrenaline rush.

He didn't care.

Careful to not hurt him, and with his state that was about as easy as just casually walking out of this place, Mick gently peeled him off the floor, barely strong enough to lift him but he somehow manages to get Krieg on his feet. "Work with me right? I can't...can't carry you for long." Good thing he's cleared out the room, it gives Ethan a chance to take his time.

He's not leaving Ethan behind, even if it means that the second they walk out that door they get gunned down.  
Ethan sucks it up as well as he can, although he's in severe pain and it shows. The broken ribs are the worst, and it's almost paralyzing. The faintest motion sends shooting pain through him, and breathing alone does it, too. "I'll do what I can." He promises weakly, and then swears under his breath. "Scheiße. Ficken." Why is it people always tend to swear in their native languages first? It can be funny in the right situation, but this? This isn't it.

The stairs will be hard. They have to get out, and get out fast. Ethan groans as shifts and wraps his arms around Mick's neck, just to help and keep himself from being completely dead hanging weight. "Go down, take a left, go back. Door there. Don't go out the front. We can..."  
Rapid gunfire erupts as the front doors are kicked open, a single gun-wielding man crashing through with ferocious intensity.

...Oh. That's right. Payne.

"GO!" Ethan encourages, which is about all he can do. Time to move.  
Unfortunately Mick isn't to fast but he compensates, making it down the stairs and only almost slipping once and manages to make it down stairs just as all Hell breaks loose, listening to Ethan's instructions and trying to figure out where all to go.

The second Payne busts in though, Mick's hauling as much ass as he can, adjusting Ethan so that he could move faster despite the man's pain. Payne's making progress, he can tell by the gunshots starting to fall fewer and fewer, and as he turned the corner Mick spotted a few of the last group of gangsters trying to break the back door lock. Idiots.

Pulling out Torres' gun he shot the men trying to escape and stopped a few feet short to use his last bullet on the lock, holstering the gun and trying to pull off the lock and chain with one hand before breaking open the door, dragging Ethan to the first car he see's, some rusty white piece of shit, and propped him up against the doors.

"I'll have to break it open and then work the locks before I can hot wire it. You gonna be okay for five seconds?" he doesn't wait for an answer, just picks up a crowbar lying next to a truck that looked like it was having work done and smashes open the driver side window. He works fast, mostly because he wants to leave before Payne finds them and goes back on his deal. The man scared him, the sniper didn't know him so the trust wasn't there. "It's unlocked. Do you need help?" he hoped for a no, the faster he worked the car the faster he could get Ethan help. Hell, all of this was so fast, Mick could feel himself shutting down as the high started to wear off.  
Payne does more than make progress. He blazes through like a madman, all dives and rolls and impossible shots. It's almost like time slows down for him, at the rate that he moves. His reflexes are utterly inhuman, but he's exactly that. God bless surprise allies. Payne by himself can easily take on a small army- and he has, mind you- so Mick and Ethan have no issue with making a clean getaway. There's a grunt of pain as a bullet pops into Max's arm, but he's not stopping now. He's had worse, and he's kept moving. Besides, it was just his second-favorite drinking arm.

Ethan rests against the car in silence with no complaint as Mick takes care of business, giving a nod of agreement and just holding his tongue. All he'd shout would be profanity, anyway. No reason for that now. Payne is not an easy man to read, but Ethan understands the fear of him. He would never want to go up against the guy, although he's glad he's got his number.

When the door's unlocked, he moves and opens it, sliding in with a grunt. "Let's go. Please." His words are short and cause him pain, although he's doing all he can to stay conscious from all the movement.  
It took him a few minutes to get the car going before he slams on the gas and nearly jets them out of there, hand pressed gently on the top of Ethan's chest to keep him from leaning forward on the momentum. His driving isn't as good as his shooting and he winces when they hit a few bumps in sympathy for Ethan. He was in bad shape, and as soon as they were a few blocks away from the building and away from any sort of chaos, Mick finally took a good look at him.

He looked like Hell.

"I can take care of you, at...at the apartment," he offered suddenly, brown eyes flicking from his face to the road. "If you don't want me to I'll drive you to a hospital. or somewhere. Though I can understand why you wouldn't want me too," what's this? Guilt? What for? This wasn't Mick's fault, not really. Maybe it was seeing Ethan so fucked up, that it got so bad, that it made Mick just feel incredibly guilty. And well, for taking Ethan's target out of rage. And that he really wished Torres had tortured him instead. But he'd killed the bastard. That was what mattered, didn't it?

"I'm sorry," he sighed when they finally made it to a red light in a busy traffic area; he was trying to just drive around for a bit and lose the steam, make sure they weren't followed. It wouldn't be a good idea to head right back to the apartment just yet, especially with seven murders under Mick's belt. "We fucked up and you got the short end of it. Shouldn't 'ave 'appened, mate. I...I'm sorry."  
"Please don't dump me at a hospital." The plea is clear, and for practical reasons as well as other ones. "They'd find the cybernetics. Have questions. Not only that, but this is so fucking obviously torture." He pauses, talking in large amounts causing him significant pain. That's going to be hard for someone who likes to gab. "They'll contact the police. Can't let that happen." For obvious reasons. He's doing ok, although he's beaten down and clearly needs significant rest ant time to heal.

"It's not your fault. Thank you for helping me. I was scared you..." Wouldn't. Couldn't. Might not get the message. Be so stressed and scared it wouldn't work out. But he had the faith to try, so that speaks for something. "I didn't want you to get hurt." It's the truth. "We fucked up but we got five-thousand out of the deal. We'll split it down the middle. Don't be sorry. Thank you for our help."  
"I only offered as an alternative. I know better than to take you there when you've got...what you've got. I just....'ad a feeling I fucked this up. I... 'ave a 'abit of fucking up so much. I'm just damn glad you're alright."

Well, as alright as he could be. Mick took a second to look around, making sure that it was just traffic behind him before he pulled out and took a less busy street. "Looks like we're not being followed. I'll take you 'ome and then get supplies and dump the car. I learned a lot of self-splinting in my military days, never good to 'ave bad fingers when you're using a rifle but there's always that chance a sniper could fuck themselves up," he coughed for a good while before continuing, "I'll 'ave to get something for my wrist. I'll be out of commission for a while, which I guess is good. Means I can make sure you're alright. Just relax 'till I get you home, alright?"

The drive back to the apartment wasn't as long as Mick thought it'd be, cities were large but navigating through them wasn't if you knew how to do it. The hard part was getting Ethan up the stairs but he somehow managed, dragging him into the small bedroom before gently lowering him on the bed. "I'll be back."  
"Alright. Not like I'm going to try doing much else." Ethan gives a faint little grin before he just falls silent for the rest of the ride. Once he limps up the stairs and lowers to the bed, he lets out a relieved sigh to be still again. He's not going to move an inch while Mick's gone. He flits into a fevered sleep, at least escaping from the pain in the meantime.

_He's on the way home from the store, bags in hand and keys between his teeth as he approaches the door. He shuffles what he's holding to get the key into the lock and turn the knob, pushing it open._

_"Papa, ich bin zu Hause!" He calls out with pleased exhaustion, removing his keys once more and kicking the door shot behind him in a worn spot that suggests he does it often. No response, no TV on. It's too early for naptime. Not only that, but the car is out front and his dad wouldn't leave while he wasn't home. Maybe he's in the backyard. There's a dripping sound- he must have left the faucet on again._

_He walks into the kitchen...and stops in the doorway, confusion across his face. There's a dark puddle on the floor, like a can of beets was spilled. Only there's meat in it. Some kind of chili? They gutted the deer from hunting outside. Nobody guts deer in the house._

_Drip. Splat. Splash. A chunk falls from above. He looks up..._

_and he screams, the bags falling from his hands._   
_"PAPA!"_

_His father is nailed to the ceiling as if crucified, nails in his hands, wrists, forearms, elbows legs, feet, knees. They were obviously driven in with a nail gun, and he's not moving. His abdomen is torn open, intestines hanging down. A knife was taken to him, and much of his organ structure lies in bits on the floor. The room smells of shit and piss and blood._

_He pukes, steps back, falls, and stays there, shaking. His teeth grit and his eyes stay closed as he turns and sprints out the door, taking only his keys with him and the wallet in his pocket._

It takes Mick almost an hour to get what he needs, finger splints, bandages, liquor for both him and Ethan's wounds. He gets an odd look from the cashier, but Mick just sighed and forced his accent away as he paid. If word of the gang shooting broke out he didn't want that unique identifier to be a part of him, at least for now.

He leaves the car about two blocks from the flat, making sure he grabs all his things, wipes it down, yanks his rifle from the trunk...or would have, if his rifle was there. The second he realizes he left it behind he shout out a curse, slamming the trunk down and kicking out a light in anger. How could he forget it? That thing was his damn pride and joy. Fuck.

Oh well, wasn't important. The rest of the walk he's fuming, but the second he makes it to the apartment his anger fades. He can hear noises coming from the bedroom and he sighed as he pulls out the supplies, trying to be careful not to wake Ethan as he gently dressed his wounds, he rather have him asleep then let him deal with the pain longer. Now was the alcohol, which Mick took a generous helping of for himself before he realized Ethan would probably rather him use peroxide. Either way, he needed to keep the cuts from infection, he debated on waking Ethan or not. Then again, the shock of the sting could land Mick with a broken nose, which was the last thing he needed.

"Oi. Up with you," he said gently tapping Ethan's face to try and wake  him. "Need to get you cleaned and need the help to keep from 'urting you, yeah?"

Mick was smart. Ethan would have punched his lights out if he could the instant that sting hit him, but waking him up was the best choice. He groans and comes to the waking world, weak and exhausted, eyes bloodshot from strain and stress. "I've got one hell of a headache. Need some water." And in typical fashion, he's shifting to try and get it himself.

"Hey, none of that. You stand up and I'll break the rest of you," it's a terrible joke but Mick says it sternly, fully intending on taking care of this man himself. "Don't move. I'll get it."

It takes him a while to find some plastic cups in the far back of the pantry, filling it with luke warm tap water before heading back to the bed room, carefully sitting down beside him and holding it to his lips. "Not too fast, mate. Don't want more damage," he sounded like a fucking nurse. Well, he rather be a nurse right now than anything else, so that was good for something.

Ethan grumbles something obscene in German and drinks slowly before he's satisfied, setting the glass aside. "Fine. Patch me up, doc." Ethan rests and waits in silence, complying with Mick's requests and bearing the burn of alcohol on wounds. When he's patched up as best as possible and left with splinted fingers and bandaged ribs, he lets out a long, deep sigh. He's exhausted, and rightfully so.

"Mick...thank you. You could have just left me and ran, and you didn't. Like...seriously. That's more than anybody else has done for me in ages."

"Yeah well, I almost did," he admitted, coughing away from Ethan before finishing up around his arms. "But I corrected myself. I was so stressed, so angry I just-"

He sighed. "Whatever. It's fine. You're welcome. I 'ad to come back for my partner, right?" he smirked, finally satisfied with what he'd done here. He took another drink from the alcohol, not even knowing really what kind he'd bought but not caring since it made him so numb. He didn't bother offering it to Ethan, just groaned when he moved his left hand to try and place it on the nightstand. In the rush he forgot to get something for it, he was sure the thing was broken but in time it would heal. "I'll sleep on the couch. I toss too much and don't wanna risk 'urting you. But I need sleep and so do you, right? I'm exhausted."

"Alright." Ethan gives a small little smile before he reaches out with his good hand to give Mick a pat on the arm. "Sleep well. Take care of yourself. I'm going to be down for a week or two." More like three. He won't admit it, though. "Thanks, bro. Really. I'll make it up to you some day."

Make it up he will, but that time is far off.


End file.
